


Mutually Beneficial

by Internerdionality



Series: Sugar Daddy 'Verse [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Smallville, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Bottom Clark Kent, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, First Time, Identity Porn, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Pining, Sex Work, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy, Top Bruce Wayne, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 54,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Internerdionality/pseuds/Internerdionality
Summary: About to lose the farm, Clark looks into a sugar daddy opportunity. By the time he realizes that the client is Bruce Wayne (aka Batman, aka the guy he's been pining over for months), he's gone too far to want to back out...No worries; everyone knows Batman doesn't have any emotions, so the risk of Clark getting his heart broken is pretty minimal here, right?
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Series: Sugar Daddy 'Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1706923
Comments: 415
Kudos: 553





	1. Here's a Bad Idea

**Author's Note:**

> While I've read and watched a small amount of canon media, I have mostly gotten into this fandom through fic; therefore, this is a hand-wavy AU set in an unholy melding of fanon, comics, Animated Series, and just a soupçon of Smallville. The boys have been doing the hero thing for about 5-6 years, the Justice League is even younger, and Batman only has one Robin so far.
> 
> Note: for a sugar daddy fic, it ended up taking me quite a while to get to the sex. Bear with me. The fic earns its explicit rating in Chapter 8.

Clark closed his laptop lid and leaned back in his chair, pressing his fingers into his stinging eyes.

“Babe, what is it?”

He glanced up, startled; he’d thought Lois too engrossed in her own work to notice him, but she’d moved from her desk in the opposite corner of the room halfway over to where he’d set up his laptop on her dining table. Standing in neutral space between the couch and TV, she gazed at him with limpid eyes and a gentle half-smile.

“You’ve been thinking so loudly the past hour I couldn’t ignore it,” she said softly, sitting down and patting the couch cushion beside her invitingly. He sighed and joined her, leaning back on the couch and throwing his arm over his eyes.

“We’re going to have to sell the farm,” he muttered into his elbow. It was the first time he’d said it out loud, and the admission carved a long path of pain down his esophagus into his stomach, where it settled like a lump of cold oatmeal.

“Shit. I thought the Patreon was helping? And the Willie Nelson thing?”

“They did,” Clark agreed, turning and meeting her eyes. “We couldn’t have paid the mortgage this past year without Farm Aid and the help from my blog readers. But I just went back over the year-end summaries, calculating what taxes and insurance are going to be due in April, and I just don’t see any way I can get the money. I’m already living on sunshine and prayers. Literally.”

Lois sighed and grimaced, nodding a little. Clark didn’t have to eat to survive, but much though he loved the feeling as sunlight filled him up with energy, it just didn’t provide the same satiety as actual food. Kind of like living on chocolate cake—no matter how much you _liked_ it, a few days of nothing else would make for some very strong cravings for steak and potatoes.

“And we’ve sold and leased off everything we can,” Clark continued. “I’ve done as many asks for community support as I’m comfortable with. More, really, it’s not like most of my readers and supporters are any better off than I am.”

“You could ask Perry to contact some of his bigger donors?” Lois suggested half-heartedly. Clark grimaced.

“Maybe. If I could swallow my pride. But that would only take care of this year, and it’ll just be even more next spring, probably, with land prices continuing to skyrocket,” Clark finished bitterly.

“Clark… I’m so sorry.” Lois said, scooting closer and running her hand down his shoulder. “I know how hard this past year has been on you. I—you could move back in here—” Clark closed his eyes with a slight frown, and she stopped.

“You know how glad I am that we’ve stayed friends, Lo—I couldn’t do without you—but it wouldn’t be comfortable for me to live here when we’re not together anymore. It’s too small a space for us not to kill each other when we can’t fuck arguments out rather than fight!”

Lois laughed along with him at that, albeit a little ruefully. They really had remained close after the breakup—to the extent that Clark spent more time at Lois’ apartment more than he did the crappy studio that he now shared with Jimmy. However, they had found that keeping to separate “territories” within the combined kitchen, dining room, and living room that took up the lion’s share of Lois’ apartment was a necessity when they weren’t actively working or hanging out together.

“Besides,” Clark continued, running his hand through his dark brown hair, “you weren’t actually charging me any more in rent than what I’m paying now, and before you say it, I’m _not_ living here and letting you pay all the expenses. Not as a long-term strategy, anyway, and there’s no point if it would just prolong the agony.”

Lois nodded in agreement, curling her legs up under herself and grabbing a throw blanket to ward off the omnipresent chill of the East Coast in January. Lois was a tiny fireball in human form, unlike Clark’s lanky six-foot frame, and her feet didn’t reach the ground from the comfortable oversized couch she’d insisted on.

Clark sighed. “I’ve been finding one stopgap solution after another for the past six months since Pa died, and it’s just stressed Ma and me to the breaking point—she never knows from month-to-month if this is the point where she’ll have to pack up and move. It’s time I accept that either I have to give up doing activism and blogging and get a second job—well, third—or I accept that retiring one day to the farmhouse is just not going to happen.”

Lois opened her mouth as if to say something, and then closed it, putting her hand over her mouth. Clark quirked his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Well…” she said, drawing out the sound and refusing to meet Clark’s eyes.

“Come on, Lo,” Clark said, not having the patience for her usual theatrics. “You know as well as I do you wouldn’t have let on there was anything to tell if you weren’t going to share it. I get the message that it’s something you’re not sure about, now spill.”

Lois sighed, twirling one of her short brown curls around her fingers. “I’m _very_ not sure if it’s a good idea, okay? It’s an opportunity that came to my attention a week or so ago, but I was never going to bring it to you. If the alternative is losing the farm, though…”

“Got it. What _is_ this very not-good idea?”

“Have you ever considered sex work?”

Clark laughed for a second, then immediately realized she wasn’t kidding and closed his mouth. “Not… really, not seriously. I’ve thought about it occasionally—I wouldn’t have the same risks that most people do, obviously, with abusers or disease. And I’ve always been pansexual in an ‘almost everyone is attractive to me’ kind of way, so the idea doesn’t _disgust_ me.”

“And don’t I know your sex drive…” Lois put in, with a throaty chuckle and a conspiratorial wink.

“Thanks,” Clark said drily. “But as much as I don’t agree with the social stigma, it’s still there, and I don’t want to do anything that would jeopardize my career. Ss,” he added, emphasizing the plural.

“Right,” Lois agreed. “But what if no one would know?”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “And I’d accomplish this how? Everyone thinks they’ll never get caught, but…”

“I know a guy… No, I know, but really!” she exclaimed as Clark snorted. “I have a friend who worked as a sort of escort for him for a while, but I guarantee you, this isn’t the kind of thing that would ever get you a solicitation bust. He’s rich, handsome. Emotional baggage and commitment issues up the yin-yang—seriously, cannot stress that enough—so he doesn’t even try to date normally for the most part. Whenever he gets tired of one-night stands with models and starlets and wants something more intense, but without any unnecessary entanglements… he picks someone, young professionals mostly, to be his pretend girl or boy or bothfriend. From the public’s point of view, he’s kind of a… serial monogamist fuckboy slash sugar daddy? Like, everyone knows he’s generous to a fault to whomever catches his eye, so it doesn’t surprise anyone that someone is able to afford better things while—and after—dating him, but no one realizes he’s actually straight-up paying them, upfront, to be a guaranteed no-frills, no-strings, no-drama, sex-on-demand arm candy.”

“That is the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard of,” Clark said.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you work with a telepathic alien from Mars.”

“Well, okay. Yeah, that’s fair, but… seriously?”

“Clark, sugardaddy.com is an actual thing, this really isn’t _that_ out of the box.”

“I—alright. Good point. But… you really think no one would find out, or think badly of me about it? I mean, I’d still look like a gold digger, wouldn’t I?”

“So, technically, I only know for certain about my friend and one other person who’ve done it, but I’m like ninety-nine percent sure that every person I’ve heard about this guy dating seriously in the past five years was paid off. And I’ve _never_ seen them get shamed—at least not any more, than, say, Taylor Swift’s “boyfriends” do. People do tend to think—well, he comes off as kind of a horndog.”

“What a surprise.”

“But he’s a gorgeous, rich horndog who gives generously to charity and he’s a lot of fun, so… there’s a ‘who would say no to that’ attitude. You’re young, you’re allowed to make stupid mistakes in your love life. I honestly don’t think anyone who doesn’t already disapprove of you would say anything other than ‘hey, I’d tap that, too.’”

“Huh.”

“Anyway, long story short, I was chatting with my friend the other day and she mentioned—she’s stayed friends with him, you see—and she mentioned that he asked her to be on the lookout for a new prospect. So… I could recommend you. If you wanted to consider it as an option, obviously you wouldn’t have to commit right away.”

Clark pursed his lips in thought. He really had considered sex work, more seriously than he’d implied to Lois—he’d had a few friends that he’d met through activist circles and the queer community who had done that kind of thing, and more than one of them had mentioned that they thought he’d be good at it. He’d always enjoyed sex, once he’d figured out how to use blue kryptonite for safety, and the service aspect was his favorite part. He loved seeing someone come apart in pleasure because of him, helping them expiate their demons and stress and problems with his body.

“He’s supposed to be _really_ good in bed, too.” Lois commented after he’d pondered silently for a while.

“Well, in that case, definitely sign me up,” Clark quipped. “Do you know how long it’s been? Oh wait, you do.”

Lois laughed. “You know you can come back to me if you’re ever feeling hard up. The bedroom was never where our problems were, and Diana wouldn’t mind.”

“Remind me why I introduced you to her in the first place?” Clark jibed half-seriously.

“Because you are an utterly unselfish, truly generous, and loving person,” Lois said, responding to his sardonic comment with utter sincerity. “And I wish I could have truly fallen in love with you.”

Clark felt his heart melt in his chest, and he leaned over and kissed her softly and briefly on the lips. “You don’t, because then you wouldn’t have Diana, and I wouldn’t change you if I could. Besides, it was me wanting to be your one and only that really broke us up, as that offer proves! And yes, if I ever get desperate, I will absolutely take you up on it,” Clark laughed. “But it’s easier for me to move on, right now at least, if we don’t sleep together.”

Lois leaned her head on Clark’s shoulder. “I do love Diana, and she loves me. But both of us have no problem with having more than one love. I just get sad, sometimes, seeing you alone. And maybe that’s both why I brought this to you, and also why I’m not sure you should take it. You’re not the kind of person who should be alone—or unlaid—and I hate to see you scraping to get by and not be able to help you more. But you also need and deserve someone who loves you romantically and sexually, with all their heart and soul, the way you want, and this certainly couldn’t be that.”

Clark sighed sadly. “I want that so much, Lo. But—I don’t know if finding someone like that would be possible while being Superman. There are too many lies I have to tell, and I don’t know if anyone who wants the kind of relationship I do would also be okay with my jetting off to play hero all the time.” He snorted a little, then gave a self-deprecatory chuckle. “Unless I finally got up my nerve to—uh. I mean…” he stopped short and groped for words, unsure of what he could say to fill the void. He hadn’t actually planned to share _that_ particular situation with Lois, but as always, she inspired confidences people never meant to give…

“What?” Lois bounced on the couch excitedly. “There’s someone you want to ask out?” She fell into her investigator thinking pose, chin on hand, and Clark groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. “Let’s see. It can’t be someone at the Planet, I’d have noticed… and you’re not the type to fall for just a pretty face you met in passing, so… someone in the League?”

“Goddammit, Lois, you’re a witch.”

“Sorceress, thank you, and proud of it. Now it’s your turn, spill.”

“No! Seriously, Lo, I can’t,” Clark said in—he hoped—a firm, decisive tone. As with most issues he really needed to keep secret, his usual strategy with B’s identity—which B wasn’t even aware that Clark _knew_ —was to compartmentalize and repress the knowledge as much as possible. Among other things, that meant not talking about it— _especially_ around Lois—and thinking about it as little as possible.

“Diana doesn’t really care—if worst came to worst, she could disappear back to Themyscira for a decade and come back with a new name,” Clark continued. “But most of the League is _really_ scary about how they protect their secret identities. For that matter, so am I, to protect you, and Jimmy, and Ma. I’m not going to say anything that could lead to you figuring out who my crush is. It’s impossible, anyway. They’re not interested.”

“Hmph. I don’t see how anyone could _not_ be interested in you.” Clark gave her a jaundiced look. “You know what I mean!”

“I do. But they’re really not.”

“You’re seriously not going to tell me anything more?” Lois demanded. “Geez, what a tease.”

“I didn’t mean to tell you _anything_ , you winkled it out of me with your superpowers!”

They both laughed. “Well, anyway. What do you think? About being an escort? I mean, if you have a crush on somebody else, maybe it’s not a good idea, but if you really don’t have any chance with them—”

Clark sighed again. “I don’t know. Let me think about it?”

“Take your time. I’ll mention to my friend that I might have a prospect so it’s on the burner, but I know this guy usually takes his time picking somebody out, so you can at least take a few days without worrying you’ll miss your chance. Ooh, and speaking of which, on the Manning article—”


	2. Batman's a Dick; That's Nothing New

Clark didn’t really have a chance to ponder his options during the next few days, as he spent almost every minute speeding from one thing to another. A cold front swept across New England and then down through the Midwest, so Superman spent a lot of time helping out at icy pileups on the interstates; rescuing people from exposure (and guilting various municipalities into providing more affordable and free housing); and generally zipping around Metropolis helping with downed electric lines, trapped cars, and buildings without power or heat. He was also busy in his Kent persona, both personally and professionally: he and Lois finalized and put out a weekend feature series about voter suppression in honor of MLK Day, and then Clark had to finagle ways to be in two places at once as he took part in the official City festivities as Superman while also attending various events and protests as Clark Kent.

And then, just when things calmed down on those fronts, the Justice League had their regular third Wednesday all-hands meeting on the Watchtower, and Clark, inspired by the civil rights season, foolishly decided that it would be a good idea to broach the rumors he’d been hearing about Batman driving metahumans and other individuals with extranormal abilities out of Gotham. 

“Oooh, somebody ate their Wheaties today,” the Green Lantern said, leaning back in his chair. “Best of luck to you climbing that mountain, Supes. Try not to rip his head off _too_ much, Spooky,” then, in an aside to the Martian Manhunter: “Don’t you hate it when Mommy and Daddy fight?” J’onn looked back at him impassibly and did not answer.

“I thought we settled the issue of you staying out of Gotham generally, and my affairs specifically, some time ago, Superman.” Batman glared at Clark, who was sitting next to him as usual, and ignored the Lantern’s color commentary from across the table.

“When it only affects Gotham, yes.” Clark agreed. He reminded himself not to quail under Batman’s withering stare, since he wasn’t supposed to be using his x-ray vision to see his fellow superhero’s eyes behind the whited-out lenses in his cowl. “I trust that you know better than I what your city needs, B. But this idea that you’re trying to keep metas out of the city is spreading. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding, but I’ve run into more than a few people who decided to come to Metropolis instead of Gotham because they think you’d be prejudiced against them. Frankly, they’re afraid of you. And that reflects back on the League.”

“I don’t care what other people think about me, and the JLA can deal with a little bad press, given that we save the world on a monthly basis.” Batman said. “If powered individuals are specifically deciding to go to Metropolis instead of Gotham, that proves my strategy is working.”

Clark paused, groping for a response. He hadn’t expected Batman to just openly _admit_ , in front of a room full of powered people, that he didn’t want metas in Gotham.

“I must confess my confusion,” Diana put in from her seat on the other side of Clark. “I was unaware that this was an explicit policy of yours. What exactly do you have against people like us, Batman?”

“I don’t have anything against you,” Batman said. “Or metas in general. I just don’t want them in Gotham. As an unenhanced human being, I don’t have the ability to police or train people with extrahuman abilities. It’s better for them to go to Metropolis or other cities where the preeminent hero also has powers.”

“Th—that’s absurd,” Clark sputtered. “You’ve trained with us all—we’ve all learned to be better heroes because of you. For that matter, you could probably take any of us in a fight.”

“If I had sufficient time to prepare.” Batman agreed evenly, dropping his voice even deeper than usual. “Which is another reason it would be a good idea for you to stay out of my business.”

“Oh, come now!” Clark protested, his voice rising. “We’ve been working together for over a year now—I thought we were past this—”

“You thought incorrectly,” Batman snapped, laying his hands flat on the table with a bang. “I team up with you and other superheroes when something threatens the world as a whole, but Gotham is _mine_ , and so are decisions on how best to protect it.”

“But—”

“I don’t have to explain myself further to you. Your issue has been raised and dismissed. Does anyone else have any other open discussion topics they want to bring up?”

Clark looked around the room for backup, but no one met his eyes.

“Excellent. Meeting adjourned.”

* * *

“B—hold up!” Batman did not, of course, listen to him, but Clark put in a little surge of super speed and got into his path, blocking the long, narrow hallway that led to the Watchtower’s zeta tubes.

“What do you want, Superman?” Batman asked wearily, stopping. “I’m not going to debate you any more on meta rights, or whatever other bee you have in your bonnet this week.”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “Does it ever occur to you that you might actually be endangering people’s lives by taking away a desperately needed sanctuary? Metahumans are often some of the most vulnerable members of society—many people, even their own families, abuse or harass them out of fear, they get targeted by the military or people building private armies, unethical scientists looking for lab rats—”

“Which is exactly why they shouldn’t be in Gotham!” Batman hissed at him. “Do you have any idea—Gotham hosts some of most efficient organized criminals in the world. All of them would love to add powered individuals to their forces. Do you know how many stashes of kryptonite I’ve confiscated from Gotham supervillains and mob bosses who were planning on capturing and controlling _you_? And you think it’s a good idea to encourage more vulnerable, exploitable metas to put themselves in that position?”

Clark stilled. “You’ve never mentioned having excess kryptonite in need of disposal.”

“It’s not excess. It’s sufficient to my needs.” Clark gaped at him, and Batman shrugged, his shoulder plates rattling. “You knew I had a store of kryptonite, as a precautionary measure; you gave me some yourself.”

“That was… so you would trust me,” Clark said, falteringly. “And just in case someone ever tried to control me, or—but why would you need more?”

Batman shrugged. “I have caches of it in a number of places, so there’s always one convenient and accessible from wherever I might need it. And I’ve made different kinds of weapons and tools from it, for different scenarios. Sometimes you need a hammer, sometimes a scalpel.”

“I—okay,” Clark said, only somewhat reassured. “But… not because you genuinely think I’m a threat anymore, right?”

Batman cocked his cowled head to the side. “You’re always going to be a _potential_ threat, by virtue of your abilities. What is the point of this conversation, Kal?”

Clark paused, trying to think of the right words. Somehow, “I’ve had a crush on you for a while and now I’m trying to decide if I should become a prostitute and it might help my decision to know if I might ever, possibly, have _any_ kind of chance with you,” just didn’t have the right ring to it.

“I… I guess—” he said, haltingly. “We’ve been teammates for a year and a half, like I said before. It—I thought that you would trust me by now. I had hoped that maybe, one day, we could become friends.”

Batman looked aside. “You’re the most powerful being on the planet, Kal-El, and you’re extremely likable and charming; everyone trusts you,”—Clark began to smile, only to falter as Batman continued relentlessly—“which means that if you ever became corrupted or had someone controlling you, it would likely come down to me to defeat you. Trust and friendship are not luxuries I can afford with you.”

Clark was proud of himself—he knew his face showed some disappointment, but he was fairly sure it didn’t give away the depth of his shock and despair at that pronouncement. “I—I see,” he murmured. “Well. I won’t take up any more of your time, then.” He strode away, using his super speed to get down the hallway and into a tube as fast as possible, refusing to listen or look back to see if Batman said anything else.

The next day, he asked Lois to go ahead and set things up with her mystery contact. Less than four hours later, just as he was getting ready to jump in the shower after a particularly messy rescue, he was sent a time and address for a preliminary interview; ironically, in Gotham.

For one wild moment as the hot water poured over his head, it occurred to Clark that B could actually be the client; after all, he lived in Gotham, was certainly rich enough to afford it, and God knew “emotional baggage and commitment issues” fit him to a T. But after a second Clark snorted, laughing at his own wishful thinking. Just because the interview was in Gotham didn’t mean the client lived there; Lois had said that this first meeting would be with an intermediary. But more importantly, Clark couldn’t imagine B engaging an escort. For one thing, he was pretty sure that all of Bruce Wayne’s supposed promiscuousness was part of the cover; in all the months the two of them had worked together, he’d never seen Batman pay any attention or grant any allowances for the demands or limitations of his mortal body. He only very rarely showed any need for food or sleep, let alone sex. And moreover, if or when B _did_ decide he wanted no-strings sex, he scarcely had to pay for it. Bruce Wayne could have pretty much anyone in the world he wanted, just by crooking a finger.

 _If only he would,_ Clark thought self-pityingly. Then he sighed and shrugged. It was time to move on. He finished up in the shower and walked across the quiet studio apartment—Jimmy was out somewhere, as he was most evenings—to the futon couch that also served as Clark’s bed on the rare occasions he actually slept. Leaning down, he pulled out the embarrassingly small suitcase in which he kept his important belongings. Unzipping a hidden inner pocket that Ma had sewed in, he took out the small lead box in which he kept his blue kryptonite ring. He opened it for just a second, feeling his powers begin to drain away, then snapped it closed again.

He didn’t often keep it on him these days, unless he knew that there would be a need. During the summer after senior year, on the advice of the AI implanted in the computer of the spaceship that had brought him to Earth from Krypton, he had used his newfound ability to fly and traveled up to the Arctic to plant the seed of the Fortress that his parents had sent with him. One of his main motivations had been the promise that the AI could find a way to allow him to have sex without worrying about endangering his partner. Up until that point, he had only engaged in kissing, some foreplay, giving oral—in other words, activities where he could make sure to stay in control and keep any of his muscles that might tend to dangerously contract away from fragile human flesh and bones.

The Fortress had been able to synthesize a new variety of kryptonite—a pretty, sparking blue—that would eliminate his powers safely, and for only as long as he was in extremely close proximity to it. Ever since, he had used it any time he had sex, or otherwise needed to counterfeit normal human reactions, handily implanted in a duplicate of the Star of David ring his Grandpa Kent had given him when he reached Bar Mitzvah age. It was also the only thing that could make this idea doable, since Superman couldn’t actually be mistaken for a human in intimate situations.

He sat down on the couch, tossing the box from hand to hand. He was still far from sure he wanted to do this. But—if it really did seem like no one would find out… and if the money was really good enough to save the farm… and if client wasn’t repulsive… well.

It just might be the answer to all his prayers.


	3. Enter the Cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of the fic that I wrote, because apparently in this time of crisis and quarantine, I just really needed to soothe my wounded soul with some interior decoration porn. You have been warned.

A few days later, Clark took the ferry over the bay, enjoying traveling at a mortal pace for once. He spent the not-quite-hour-long boat ride strolling up and down the windy deck, breathing in the bracing salt-sea air, and admiring the gray sky and white-tipped waters. He gave a taxi-driver the address Lois’ contact had sent him, which turned out to be a condo building; high-end, modern, yet for some reason, still done up in Gothic architecture, complete with gargoyles. Gotham was nothing if not committed to its aesthetic. Once there, he smilingly introduced himself to the doorman, who blandly led him over to an express elevator for the higher floors after calling up and confirming his appointment. He peered at himself worriedly in the mirrored walls of the elevator, checking for flaws. Recognizing that he didn’t show to his best in any of the cheap suits he wore daily for work at the _Planet_ —and figuring there was no harm in truthful advertising—he’d worn a pair of tight jeans and a plaid button-up that Ma had tailored for him. The fitted clothes flattered his lean but muscular frame (he hoped), and the blue and green in the plaid made his eyes stand out behind the thick, disguising glasses. He’d tamed his curly brown hair as much as possible without resorting to hair gel, which he’d never figured out how to use.

When he walked off the elevator on the fourteenth floor, he found himself in an antechamber; a small, unfurnished space, maybe six feet by four, it seemed to exist solely so any visitor would have to knock on the impressive carved wooden door opposite the elevator and wait to be allowed inside, rather than walking directly into the living space beyond. Well, and likely to impress any such visitor with the owner’s taste and money, given the expensive-looking art on the walls. Jimmy, who had minored in art history, would undoubtedly be able to give him a fifteen-minute lecture on each piece, but all Clark could say was that the works weren’t modern art (which he hated) or impressionist (which he loved), and complemented each other nicely.

He took a deep breath and knocked. Almost immediately, the door was opened, and an attractive, short-haired brunette—also dressed in fairly casual street clothes, he was relieved to note—smiled at him from the other side.

“Clark Kent, I presume? Please, come in; I’m Selina, Lois’ friend.” She stood back, holding the door wide, and he nodded a little awkwardly and walked through. He had intended to turn immediately back to the door and offer her his hand, but stopped halfway, gazing at the view to his left. The woman behind him said nothing, seeming to expect that any newcomer would need to appreciate the space before leaping into a conversation.

The room was dominated by a long series of three-quarter windows and glass doors that took up the entire western and part of the northern walls. Through the crystal-clear glass was a spectacular view of the sun setting behind downtown Gotham, its dark towers and Gothic facades gleaming dully against the red and orange clouds. To the north, Delaware Bay was now a dark blue, almost indistinguishable from the sky above it. Just a sliver of the lights of Metropolis were visible across the water, twinkling warmly in welcome to the ferry boats that crossed from one city to the other, looking like tiny toys.

“Wow,” he said after a moment, still gazing out the window. “That’s quite a view.” 

“I know, right?” The woman came up next to him. “It’s what I’ve missed the most, in some ways.”

Clark blinked at the implication as he turned toward her; he’d assumed they were meeting in a neutral location, not somewhere that she’d spent any period of time, and could presumably be tied to, if he investigated her identity. As he looked her full in the face for the first time, he realized why that would have been pointless security theater. Selina Kyle wasn’t exactly a household name; she didn’t keep a low profile, but she didn’t seek publicity out, either, and none of her usual public activities—attending art galas, film premieres, and similar events, mainly—were likely to result in any sustained media attention. But for a reporter who had occasionally covered the society beat, there was little chance of her going unrecognized. However, it was even less likely that he would be able to parlay that recognition into knowledge of the client—over the past decade, she had been in mutually acknowledged relationships with at least three people he could think of immediately who could afford a regular escort, and had graced the arm of at least half a dozen more at one event or another.

“But,” she said, continuing from her previous comment, “my place is almost as nice. Shall we sit? Can I get you anything to drink before we start?”

“Um. Yes, thank you, some water would be nice.”

That gave him a precious moment to collect himself and check out the rest of the apartment. His feet sunk into a plush gray and cream carpet. In front of him and to his right, a full kitchen in cherry and granite took up the northeast corner, with an L-shaped counter bar demarcating it from the rest of the room. Two doors on the rest of the eastern wall, with matching floor-to-ceiling bookcases and a dinette set between them, promised that the apartment continued on from there. On the remaining southern wall at his immediate left, gas flames leapt merrily in a fireplace made of light-colored bricks, blackened metal, and glass, surrounded by a comfortable-looking couch set upholstered in something black and sleek, with a few plush red throw pillows providing a color accent. Interspersed cabinets and benches that matched the rest of the furnishings nestled under the windows, providing extra seating and storage. There were a few small sculptures and paintings providing flavor notes to the furnishings, but they were unobtrusive classic pieces, not indicating any particular taste or style.

The apartment was tasteful and comfortable, the colors of cherry red, pale gray, and black and lack of personal touches creating a warm, but not overly intimate space. The furnishings were clearly expensive but, unlike the antechamber, didn’t seem to be trying to intimidate—they let the incredible expanse of skyline do that for them.

Clark waffled between the seating arrangement and the dinette set for a moment, before deciding on the former. It was made up of four matching pieces—a larger couch, loveseat, and two upholstered armchairs—and some small end tables grouped in a half circle around a large burnished coffee table with a glass and metal top. As he neared the loveseat, a large and very fluffy black cat poked its head up and mewed demandingly. He sat down next to it and started stroking. It was an old cat with a fragile, thin frame, but there was nothing weak about the way it immediately pushed at his hand, mewing every time he paused his strokes.

“That’s Gertrude,” Selina laughed. “She loves all people and no other cats, so she decided to stay here when I moved out. A cleaning service comes in once a day to take care of her when no one else is staying here, but she really prefers having a roommate. I hope you’re not allergic, because this is her apartment, now...” she handed him a full, cool glass and placed a small stack of papers on the table before taking a seat in one of the armchairs across from him.

“That’s fine. I like cats—I wish I could adopt one, but with as often as I’ve moved the past few years and as busy as I am, it wouldn’t be fair.”

Selina gave him a firm, smiling nod of approval, then picked up the top sheet of paper from the stack. “So, Clark. I know from Lois that this isn’t a situation that you’re experienced or entirely comfortable in, so I’d like to start by laying out exactly the parameters of the proposition, before asking you a few questions. I know that may repeat some of what Lois has told you, but I’d like to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

“That sounds fine to me.”

“Good. Firstly,” she leaned forward and slid a thin stapled document and a pen across to him, “please sign this NDA.”

He looked through it briefly. It was a pretty standard “do not reveal information or materials received” such as he’d signed many variants of in his line of work. No time limit, was the biggest difference—the ones he usually came across were for a matter of days or weeks until the information could be made public, whereas this was a lifetime gag order.

“This is just for our conversation here, of course, and any materials you take with you today,” Selina commented. “There’ll be a more detailed one if you were to take the position.” 

“Right,” he agreed, quickly signing his looping C-scribble, J., K-scribble.

“My friend and former client is an attractive scion of a very wealthy family and an executive at a well-known company. He is uninterested in pursuing any deep emotional relationships, and prefers to keep any romantic partners from inserting themselves into his private home life. However, he does have a... mmm, _very_ active sex drive, and often appears at high society events. He has found that having a well-compensated companion allows him to satisfy that drive without unwanted entanglements, and provides a buffer against those who might otherwise pursue him at such events.”

Clark nodded slowly. That was essentially what he’d expected from what Lois had said, although after hearing it spelled out like this, he wondered what the client’s trauma—or secrets—could possibly be, that he was so guarded against lovers wanting more of him than he was willing to give. If the client _was_ here in Gotham, as Selina’s comment about the apartment seemed to imply, perhaps he could hit up Batman for a background check before he committed himself. He could make it seem like he was checking up on some possibly unsavory activity, although doing it without actually siccing the Dark Knight on the poor guy would be difficult.

“You would accompany him to events two to four times a month,” Selina continued her lecture, developing a slight lyrical delivery; as if this was a speech she’d rehearsed. “You will know about those well in advance. In addition, you would be on call for personal visits, which would take place in this apartment—he will likely want you be here at several pre-established times every week, during which he may or may not visit. The frequency of his visits depends entirely on his mood and schedule, which are both extremely variable. He will grant you a generous allowance to set up the space here to maximize your time in which he is not present, however you want to spend it. He’ll pay for you to stock the fridge here and of course, you can have food delivered. He understands that you will still have a full-time job and social life, and doesn’t want to interfere with that. Basically, you would commit to being generally available in your free time, and he would commit to not abuse that.”

Selina paused, glancing up, and Clark nodded that he was following. She smiled again, a quick, gamine grin, and he couldn’t help but smile back—despite the cool way in which she’d delivered the information so far, the devil-may-care, punky attitude underneath her professionalism was appealing. She looked back down at her notes.

“Since I assume you’d continue living and working in Metropolis, this next item may not apply to you, but we might as well go over it. You’d be welcome to stay in the apartment whenever you want—most of his former companions have lived here—and you could have guests, but you’d need to inform him whenever other people are going to be here. And since we’re on the topic: he’s had companions who lived outside of Gotham before, and will make allowances and extra compensation for the time spent in commute, but _you_ will be expected to do the traveling, not him—the events you attend together may occasionally occur in Metropolis, but all personal visits will be here, and there is no negotiation on that point.”

Clark nodded for a third time, beginning to feel like a marionette. That certainly answered the question about where the client was located. “That’s fine. I actually quite enjoy the ferry ride; I can catch up on the news and even do a little writing.” For that matter, Clark might well choose to take up residence in the apartment, if he accepted the position. He did enjoy the ferry rides between Metropolis and Gotham, when he had the extra time to do it. And when he didn’t, well. Getting places quickly was one of the key advantages of being Superman. The time required to be available at the apartment would post no particular inconvenience for him, either—he could easily install one of the alarms that the Fortress had made for him, linked to the JLA communicators that Batman had helped him develop from Kryptonian technology. That way, he’d have some warning when his client was about to show up, and otherwise spend the time as he pleased. He’d have to find some kind of excuse for being called away for an emergency, however; his usual Clark Kent flakiness wouldn’t work, especially if he were living somewhere that the client had access to. Although—

“If I were having people over, what would I tell them?”

Selina cocked her head. “Who you’re dating will be public knowledge, just not that you’re being paid to do it. You shouldn’t tell people that it’s a love shack, if that’s what you mean. He’s someone who… let’s just say it won’t surprise anyone that he owns multiple residences, or that he might invite a casual lover to live in one of them for a couple months.”

“I see.” Clark pursed his lips and took a sip of water.

“And just to be clear on that point,” Selina said. “You would not be able to tell _anyone_ of the true nature of your relationship or about anything that happens between you and the client. Ever. Not your mother, not your best friend—you say ‘he’s a private person, I don’t like to talk behind his back’ or you say ‘no comment’ and you repeat it as often as you need.”

Clark’s brow creased. “Wait—if that’s the policy… then how did Lois know about you, and about her friend who held the position before?”

Selina smirked. “Well, Clark, I think that’s something you should ask Lois. Although I daresay her answer will be ‘no comment.’” Clark choked and set his water down, coughing into an arm to clear his airway.

Finally,” Selina continued, ignoring Clark’s consternation, “with regard to logistics, this contract would cover up to nine months, but can be severed by either party at any time. You’d be paid $250,000 up front, along with allowances for clothing, food, and customizing the apartment.” Clark barely managed to avoid another coughing fit at that, but Selina took no notice. “If you choose to sever the contract in the first three months, you would receive no further payment. If the relationship continues for longer than that, or if the client chooses to end it early, you would receive an additional quarter-million.”

Clark valiantly prevented his eyes from bugging out. That was more than he’d imagined in a billion years. Just the first payment would allow him to pay off the _entire mortgage_ on the farm, never mind the taxes and insurance. And for less than a year’s worth of work!

“Um… what if he wanted it to continue past the nine months?”

Selina shook her head. “The client finds that anything longer than that tends to spur too much interest—people start asking when you’re going to move in together, get married, that kind of thing. You can’t get too invested. This would be a temporary blip in your life, and then you’d get to go back to living it on your own terms.”

“Okay. I mean, yeah; that sounds like exactly what I’m looking for.”

“Good. Now, moving on. Sex.”

“Sex?” Clark repeated, stunned. Or—not stunned, he knew what he was here about. Just surprised that after all the professionalism of the conversation so far, she would suddenly be so blunt.

“Indeed,” Selina said drily, with a mischievous spark in her eyes. Clark shook his head minutely, smiling. She was having fun screwing with him, apparently. “I’m going to be sending you home with a fairly detailed questionnaire, but before that, it’d be helpful if you could summarize your general preferences for me. Just to make sure we’re not wasting our time.”

“Well—I really don’t have—I mean, I do have preferences, in the sense that there are things that I fantasize about more than others. But I’ve found that I really enjoy most sex, as long as my partner is enjoying it. I get off on seeing other people get off, basically. I’m not incredibly experienced, but I’ve done a decent variety of things and not found anything I really disliked.”

Selina tsked. “I appreciate that… However, this client—let’s put it this way. He’s happy to pay generously for having no entanglements, for someone who will adapt themself to his schedule, his requirements. For not having to do any emotional labor,” she added with a sardonic, one-sided smile. “But he’s not okay with paying for the sex itself. He wants someone who is willing—eager—without that. And he has a very particular sexual dynamic that he requires. So, I’d like to hear what your actual preferences are, to make sure that what he likes will work for you.” She leaned forward. “I understand that you’re in need of the money, Clark, and that that’s primarily why you’re here. And let me tell you right now that if you’re not compatible with this specific client, I can and will recommend you to other opportunities—they might not be as lucrative, but would be less… specifically demanding.”

Clark sighed. He’d often heard that trustworthy Doms were harder to find than subs, and thought it unlikely that someone paying for sex with a specific dynamic was looking to do the amount of work that his preferences would demand. “Well… I really do enjoy a variety of sex. I like vanilla and kinky sex, I enjoy most positions, but—” he continued quickly, as Selina looked like she was going to impatiently interrupt him—“if you’re asking about my personal _ideal_ sexual dynamic, I prefer to be dominated. Not necessarily—I can top or bottom, but I get off on my partner taking charge. It can be very light, just my partner making the decisions, or a full-blown D/s roleplay—somewhere in the middle would be my exact preference, but anywhere along that spectrum does it for me. Though again, I have dommed before, myself, and I think I was pretty—”

“Relax, Clark.” Selina cut him off. “I think that will work fine.”

Clark blinked. “Really?”

“Yes. My client wants to be in complete control. Which is not to say that he wants a pushover or to stifle your thoughts and opinions—quite the opposite—but as far as what you’ll do together in the bedroom and how you’ll act when you’re out in public together, what you’ll wear—he will dictate those, to an extent that most people who don’t have a submissive kink would find uncomfortable. That’s why I wanted to check.”

Clark colored, feeling a light flush of arousal. He certainly wouldn’t want to live as a 24/7 submissive, but doing so in the bedroom and occasional performative outings worked very well for him.

“Lastly: part of your utility is to serve as a buffer against those who might otherwise pursue the client, which won’t work if you’re known not to be monogamous, so the client would _prefer_ you not date anyone else while you’re together. That said, if that’s a deal breaker, he would allow you to pursue your own affairs if you can do so discretely. Safety is important, however; you will have to obtain and provide a clear STD test, and as a matter of courtesy, if you have any unprotected sex, or even protected sex with someone who is extremely high risk, you would let the client know immediately. He will do the same for you.”

Clark shrugged. “That’s fine. Realistically, if there were someone else who I wanted to sleep with that badly while doing this job, I’d be looking for an exit, not an exception.”

“Well, in that case—is this something you would like to pursue further?”

“I—yes. At least… I’d like to hear who the client is, obviously, but—”

“Yes, of course. Here.” She passed a manila envelope over to him, one of the old-fashioned kinds with a red cord that tied it shut. “This is a contract laying out what I’ve told you here today. It has the client’s name on it. Please wait to open it until you’re alone at home. There’s also the questionnaire I mentioned, the more detailed NDA, and a proposed contract. Please review them, and then call the number under the flap if you want to proceed further—that’ll connect you directly with the client to set up the next interview. I hope it goes without saying—though I’m going to say it anyway,” she winked, “that everything in this packet, including the number, is covered under the NDA you signed today, and should not be used for any other purposes.” He nodded understanding.

“I realize this may be hard to believe coming from a reporter, Selina, but you can trust my discretion.” 

“If we didn’t, you wouldn’t be here,” she replied warmly, and stood. He stood also, collecting the papers, and then held out his hand. She shook it once, firmly. “I hope you decide to take the position, Clark. The client is also a friend, and I’ve benefited greatly from my association with him. I think you would, too—and that you’d be good for him, as well.”


	4. Flashbacks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be all about our boys’ past interactions, but I got distracted by writing down my and my wife’s personal fanwank of how Bruce can possibly be a billionaire and yet not a bad person. Feel free to skip Flashback 1 if that’s not your jam, tho I tried to make it still engaging!

Clark was very patient—he didn’t fly home immediately, not wanting to risk running afoul of one of Batman’s monitoring cameras. After their argument a few days prior, the last thing he needed was to have to explain why Superman had ventured into Gotham. Once he got on the ferry, however, he figured he’d waited long enough and used his x-ray vision on the packet. After all, Selina had only asked that he avoid _opening_ it until he was alone; it was just his good luck that he didn’t have to open it to read it.

He was punished almost immediately for his sophistry as he read the name under the flap and couldn’t immediately do what he wanted, which was run in circles screaming and waving his hands in the air, demanding of God: why, oh why, would they grant _this_ wish, incredibly problematic and inconvenient though it was, and ignore every other prayer that Clark had ever made?

Well, except when he’d prayed that Peter Morgan would ask him to the sixth-grade dance, but _really._

Although now that he thought about it, maybe he’d been chosen by some kind of capricious cupid-like spirit who only granted romance-related desires? He should probably get Mxyzptlk to check the next time he came around.

Just in case it was a case of wishful thinking producing hallucinations rather than the machinations of an uncaring deity with a perverted sense of humor, Clark x-rayed the packet again.

ROBERT BRUCE WAYNE

He put it down, feeling nauseated. Unable to indulge itself in hysterics, his mind drifted back through the years...

* * *

**Flashback 1 - A little over four years ago**

_“Okay, but seriously, eat the rich, right?” Duncan asked, putting his cards down and taking a chug from his beer. “We gotta go back to French Revolution times; bring back the guillotines, man.”_

_Clark cocked his head, playing with his own cards. He’d been “winning” this game of CAH and was pretty sure that Duncan was just bored of it and trying to head off another round. That said, he didn’t particularly mind—it was a silly game whose one redeeming quality was its propensity for starting interesting conversations. “How are we defining rich?” he asked._

_“Billionaires,” Ash, Jimmy’s_ _date, put in. Similarly reading the room, they laid down their cards and walked over to the sideboard to get another drink. “Every billionaire on this planet got there by building on the misery of their fellow human beings. There’s no other way you can do it.”_

 _“Wait, what about, like, Jimmy Buffett, or Bill Gates, or Bruce Wayne?” asked… Karen? Carrie? No, Cara, that was it. Clark wasn’t sure how exactly she was related to the group—she might have come in as someone’s date, or Lois was always picking up strays_ _whom she figured could use some better socialization—but he’d guess this would be the only time she partied with this particular crowd. “Haven’t they all done a lot of good?” The partiers variably choked, snorted, or guffawed, as their individual predispositions led them._

_Alison, the mom friend in the group, took pity on her. “Umm, Jimmy Buffett is the guy who wrote Margaritaville. You probably mean Warren.”_

_“And he’s one of the better rotten apples, but he still mostly made his money by investing in businesses with shady ethics,” said Deke, who wrote progressive Cassandra articles in the Planet’s Business section. “Or buying them and making them more profitable by forcing them to cut corners with their staff and stuff like that. And don’t get me started on Bill Gates, that guy reversed years of antitrust legislation in this country.”_

_“She does have a point about Bruce Wayne, though.” Jimmy commented._

_“Please, you just think he has a hot ass,” Ash snorted._

_“Um, babe, I don’t just think that. It’s the objective truth. The dude’s been voted Sexiest Man of the Year like ten times, and people have only even known he’s alive for the past two years.” Jimmy retorted._

_“Bruce Wayne doesn’t count,” Lois put in. “He’s been a billionaire since he was nine years old and, through a bizarre quirk of history, economics, and politics, he can’t actually give away sufficiently large amounts of money fast enough to_ not _be a billionaire without it benefitting more rich people than poor. His situation is unique.”_

_“Fair,” agreed Deke._

_“Regardless, he spends his days drunk or high or out whoring,” Duncan pointed out. “Or all three. Scarcely a role model.”_

_“Okay, but you don’t have to be an ideal role model to not deserve to be guillotined,” Jimmy pointed out. “Come on. He’s rich, young, gorgeous, single, queer... Don’t spoil the dream.”_

_“Wait, what?” Clark asked. Up until that point, he’d mostly just enjoyed watching his friends debate each other, but hey. He was a twenty-three-year-old queer journalist in the Big Apricot. So, sue him for perking up at the (however slim) promise of sex. “Who is this we’re talking about?”_

_The collective chorus of “?!?!?” that occurred now was even louder than after Cara’s Buffett fail._

_“How have you never heard of Bruce Wayne?” Lois asked, her voice rising with incredulity. “I think I might have to rethink our new partnership…”_

_Clark’s promotion was just new enough at that point that he got worried for a second, before catching the teasing tone in her voice. “I know I’ve heard the name around,” he protested. “Gothamite, right? I assume, related to Wayne Enterprises? I just don’t know the whole backstory, apparently. Or at least, I didn’t know he was queer and hot.”_

_“Oh wait,” Jimmy said. “He was mainly in the news while you were down with mono that one time. Back when we were still stringers and you couldn’t make your rent while you were sick, so you went home to Smallville for a couple months.”_

_Back the first time Clark went up against Luthor, got his ass handed to him, and spent eight weeks recuperating from green kryptonite poisoning in the Fortress, in other—more truthful— words. Clark made grateful eyes over at Jimmy, who had hauled said ass up to the Arctic._

_“Yeah, and he would have been too young to remember the original story, Lo,” Duncan chimed in. “Give the kid a break.” That last was said with a wink and a leer, but Clark didn’t really mind. Duncan was a decent sort._

_“Even in Smallville, you’d think you’d have gotten the news,” Lois said, raising an aquiline brow._

_“You know, I think I probably did,” Clark covered hurriedly. “Like I said, it definitely sounds familiar. It’s just with the fever, everything got pretty jumbled. I really don’t remember pretty much anything from that whole period.”_

_“Hmph,” Lois snorted, narrowing her eyes at Clark._

_“Anyway,” he said blithely, ignoring her suspicions, “Catch me up. How did he become a billionaire at nine?”_

_“Well, you actually have to go back to his great-grandmother,” Lois said, straightening in her chair and perking up at the prospect of getting to give a lecture._

_“Yeah,” Deke agreed. “She built up the family’s fortune after the turn of the century, right?”_

_“Well, she started out as a very rich widow—the Wayne family has been one of the first families of Gotham practically since it was founded—but she definitely had chops of her own,” Lois agreed. “Built a fortune to rival the Rockefellers. And instead of getting caught up in the speculation of the Roaring Twenties, she invested it all back in Gotham. Which meant that during the Depression, she didn’t lose everything—and what’s more, she kept the city afloat by buying out failing businesses so that people wouldn’t lose their jobs, purchasing whole apartment buildings and forgiving the rent, building shelters and hospitals and orphanages, the whole enchilada. Basically ended up owning the city once it was over, but in a fairly benevolent way.”_

_“Sounds like a mensch.” Clark agreed._

_“So, then her son takes over during WWII,” Deke took over the story thread. “He wasn’t quite as smart or as much of an altruist, and because Queen Wayne was super into Prohibition and kept it going in Gotham for a long time after the nation gave it up, the mob got a chokehold on the city. He ended up having to sell off a lot of the property to the mafia bosses to keep the peace, but then used the proceeds to diversify into tech, weapons, energy, shipping. And when they went public, he wrote it into the company’s bylaws that shares can’t be given away or sold for less than market value—so that the mob couldn’t threaten him or his family into handing over the company like they did with half the city.”_

_“Hence why Bruce can’t not be a billionaire, no matter how into philanthropy he is?” Alison asked._

_“Exactly,” Lois confirmed. “Even if he gave away every personal possession—which he wouldn’t, he’s hardly a saint—but even if he did, his shares in WE make up the bulk of his fortune, and he can only sell them to people who can already afford them.”_

_“Yeah,” Deke agreed. “He could still sell them all and then give away the proceeds, I suppose, but the company would end up in some less savory hands, and he’ll probably be able to make and give away more in interest and dividends over the next decade than he would with a one-time sale.”_

_“But you’re getting ahead of yourself,” Jimmy said, getting into the action. “Bruce’s father was the real mensch. A doctor and a big philanthropist. He really did try to give away most of his money, almost succeeded at one point, and it almost killed the company. They just barely managed to keep it afloat with some big tech advances in the Eighties. But then he was killed in a mugging.”_

_“Sure,” Duncan commented. “Richest guy who wasn’t a mob boss in the city, killed in a random mugging. There are a lot of conspiracy theories about that night, I can tell you that.”_

_“Anyway,” Lois said, reclaiming her story and glaring impartially around the room to prevent anyone from stealing it again. “Bruce’s parents_ _are tragically murdered—in front of him, to twist the knife—when he’s a kid and he gets raised as the orphan prince of Gotham. Unsurprisingly to pretty much everyone who knows how children work, he turns into a total basket case. Drugs, booze, sex, you name it. Gets kicked out of Princeton and then disappears.”_

_“He disappeared?” Clark asked, surprised._

_“Yup,” she confirmed. “Gone for almost seven years. Apparently was just wandering the world, having a good time. Came back just as he was about to get declared legally dead and his fortune divvied up to Wayne shareholders. Lots of sobbing that day in the houses of the rich.”_

_“Turned into a seven-day wonder, and he’s made plenty of headlines since by being outrageous,” Ash said. “Openly queer, sure, but basically_ _in a ‘if it’s hot, fuck it; if it’s not, shake it and see if it’ll heat up’ kind of way.”_

_“Miaow!” Alison commented, and they all laughed._

_* * *_

**Flashback 2 - A bit over three years ago**

_Superman hovered high over Gotham. Lois swore that this “Bat-Man” story was a pure urban myth, popularized by the Gotham City Police Department in the past couple years to scare would-be criminals. But the latest news out of Gotham—lowest crime rate in twenty years, mobsters actually staying in prison for longer than a few months—had convinced Clark that there might be something to it. After several hours spent combing the city, however, he was beginning to think he’d been engaging in wishful thinking._

_Just as he was about ready to give it up for the night, a yellow spotlight shot up into the sky, almost hitting him. Assuming it was part of an attack, he dove out of the sky and advanced tactically toward its source, only to find himself crouching on the roof of a building next to the GCPD, watching a mustachioed middle-aged man pace back and forth._

_After about twenty minutes, a dark figure swung in on a grapple line attached to a nearby skyscraper. Years later, Clark wished he could say that he hesitated for a moment, considered the ethical ramifications of uncovering another hero’s secret identity. But the truth was, he was too excited to find that he wasn’t alone, that there might be someone—in the next city over, even—who shared his mission, to pause and consider. He used his super sight and hearing to eavesdrop on the conversation and peak below the man’s black head covering and mask._

Bruce _fucking_ Wayne?!?!

_Clark blinked and, in his startlement, lost track of the conversation he was listening in on. In the year or so since he’d first learned about the Prince of Gotham, he’d followed him in the news and had developed a little bit of a celebrity crush._

_Okay, so the guy came across as a feckless fool. But he was still the CEO of a Fortune 500 company, and even if he’d done that largely by inheriting loyal and competent retainers, he had to be some kind of a decent person to maintain that loyalty and refrain from getting in the way of that competence. There was a lot that Bruce Wayne could do to maximize his personal wealth by shitting on the thousands, if not millions, of people who earned their living through Wayne Enterprises or lived on Wayne-owned properties, and Clark appreciated that Bruce was one of the few members of the one percent who steadfastly refused to let his company do so. Furthermore, the man’s commitment to philanthropy could not be argued with, even if he was only doing it to put his name on things and create tax havens._

_And, well; he was absurdly hot—quite possibly the best-looking openly queer man in the world—and Clark wasn’t made of stone. Of course, Clark was with Lois, now, and very much in love with her. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t have occasional fantasies. Certainly, Lois did, and some of their best sex came from relating their respective fantasies to each other…_

_Belatedly, Clark retargeted his focus off these—very stimulating—thoughts back to the conversation the_ _Bat-Man was having with… a police detective, apparently. They were discussing a bank robbery. One that was apparently going to happen in a couple months. The vigilante and commissioner were making plans to surprise the robbers in the act,_ after _they’d broken into the bank’s vault._

_Clark’s brows creased. He appreciated, of course, that you couldn’t arrest people before they’d actually committed any crimes. But letting a gang of robbers get inside a bank vault—and the Bat-Man was discussing logistical problems about it being during the day, which meant employees and probably members of the public would be present and endangered—seemed very unwise, and the only motivation that occurred to Clark would be to help themselves to some of the vault’s contents. All his life, Clark had heard about the legendary corruption of Gotham. Had it spread even to its most powerful protectors? He hated to believe it of Bruce Wayne or the Bat-Man, but clearly the guy wasn’t at all who he pretended to be, in either incarnation… and that might not be due to solely good intentions._

_Superman would be nearby when this robbery went down, Clark decided. If all went well, he could just observe and make sure that nothing shady was going down. And if anyone’s life seemed to be in danger, he could intervene._

_* * *_

**Flashback 3 - A little under three years ago**

_“How much of a blithering idiot are you?” Batman yelled, pacing in front of Clark. “What were you_ thinking _?”_

 _Clark shrank back a little, then straightened his spine, reminding himself that he was_ Superman, _and not afraid of dark, caped vigilantes. It didn’t help that with his armor, cape, cowl, and boots, the man was significantly taller and bulkier than Clark, although the muscles and height added by the Kryptonian distortion tech built into the Superman suit likely evened the score._

_This wasn’t exactly the meeting of minds with another superhero that Clark had hoped for. First, Batman had fled before he’d had a chance to approach him after the attempted bank heist. Then, when he came back to Gotham again to try and talk, the caped vigilante—now with lead fibers woven into his suit to stop Superman from looking through his cowl—had signaled him to come out to this secluded warehouse on the Gotham docks, only to yell at him?_

_Clark flushed angrily. “I was thinking that there were people in that bank about to get shot! What were you doing, letting criminals get that far?”_

_“Everyone in that bank was an undercover police officer, and they knew the risks they were signing up for,” Batman growled. “We spent months setting up that sting, and you came in and ruined it in thirty seconds! Given that no one but you saw their faces during the crime, they won’t even be able to make any charges stick!”_

_Clark’s brows creased in confusion. “I caught them in the act of robbing a bank and the cops just arrested them, how would they not go to prison?”_

_Batman sneered. “This is Gotham, not Metropolis, you… you superpowered amateur in a unitard. To get anyone with cash or mob connections put away in this town, proof has to be incontrovertible. And not_ poisoned _by demonstrably illegal vigilante activity!”_

_“Oh.” Clark colored. Perhaps he had been spoiled a bit by Metropolis. But… “So… that was why you were going to let them get all the way into the vault? Because otherwise they wouldn’t get convicted?”_

_Batman’s eyes—Clark could, at least, still see through the white lenses—narrowed._

_“You knew that that was our plan, and you went in anyway?”_

_“Well…”_

_“Oh my god, you’re like an overenthusiastic, clumsy, untrained golden retriever.”_

_“Hey! Rude!”_

_“Alright, look. Since I don’t_ currently _have the ability to put you out of commission—"_

_“Wow, is that a threat?”_

_“I’m going to give you a quick lesson instead. Please appreciate my generosity. You see, some of the most powerful mafia families in Gotham use that bank. Today’s heist was a feint—the robbers had been commissioned by a mob family that’s trying to stage a territory grab. If they’d been successful, they would have left with paltry amount of gold bars for their payment, and that would have been the headline, but their real goal was to transfer records and property deeds from the safety deposit boxes of one family to those of another, unbeknownst to the owners. If they had gotten into those boxes, we could have used the case to expose all the illegal contents of both families’ vaults, potentially bringing down several of the most dangerous crime lords in Gotham. Instead, what you did today may well spark off a mob war.”_

_Batman stopped, panting in rage. Clark stared back at him with a white face, horrified._

_“I… I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”_

_“That is abundantly clear, as is the fact that you didn’t stop for a second to consider the possible ramifications of your actions.”_

_Clark hung his head in shame. “Look, how can I fix this? Tell me what to do to make it right. We could work together—share information, identities…”_

_Batman audibly hissed, and Clark recoiled a bit. “The only thing I trust you to even attempt to do is stay out of my way and my city from now on. Go back to Metropolis and rescue kittens from trees, that’s about your speed.”_

_Clark flushed again. “Look, I know I screwed up, but I could be a lot of help to you—” he broke off, backing up as Batman stalked toward him menacingly._

_“If I ever catch you in Gotham again without my express invitation, short of a natural disaster, or if you do anything to try and find out who I am, I will find a way to end the threat you present,” Batman warned, then held up his fist and clenched it._

_Suddenly, Clark found himself surrounded by an opaque particle cloud while the roof underneath him gave way. After a minute of spinning around in circles, hovering in blind panic, the weird fog began to dissipate. He rubbed the residue on his suit and identified it as powdered lead. Batman must have hidden some kind of explosive laced with it under the roof that he’d lured Clark onto, just so he could make a dramatic exit._

_Clark shook as much of the damn stuff out of his hair and uniform as possible and took off again, fuming. If he never came back to Gotham or saw Batman again, it’d be too soon._

_* * *_

**Flashback 4 - A year and a half ago**

_Clark approached the other superheroes who had helped save the world from Darkseid’s attack and gave Batman, who paced equanimously next to him, a guilty, sidelong look. After all his angry threats after Clark had bungled their first meeting, Batman had come to Metropolis to help fight off the alien attack, and then had risked his own life to bring Superman back through the portal from Apokolips._

_“Batman, Superman,” the gorgeous armored woman who’d kicked ass during the battle greeted them. “I am very pleased that you have both returned safely. You fought valiantly_ _.”_

 _“As did you, Princess.” Batman responded gravely. “The legends that have survived to our generation regarding your prowess did not_ _do you justice.”_

_The… Princess?...inclined her head in acknowledgment, smiling._

_“Okay, so… you all know each other?” asked the man in green. “Cause I’m new to this party.”_

_“By reputation only,” the BAMF woman responded. “I am Diana of Themyscira, Princess of the Amazons. Your people once called me Wonder Woman.”_

_“Kal-El of Krypton,” Clark introduced himself. “Also known as Superman.”_

_“Batman,” Bruce said shortly._

_“That is all really cool,” the other man enthused. “I’m a Green Lantern, sort of an intergalactic cop? I’m not sure exactly, it all kind of fell in my lap pretty recently._ _So, saving the world with you all was pretty awesome. 10/10, would hero again.”_

_Wonder Woman shot him a puzzled look, but said nothing._

_“Well,” Clark said, gathering his courage. “It seems like there are a lot of superpowered or alien threats to the world these days. Perhaps we should all… exchange contact information? Or something? So that we can team up again, maybe more easily, if we need to in the future?”_

_He gave Batman another sidelong look. To his relief, the man didn’t look upset at the idea, at least as far as Clark could tell._

_“I think that would be wise,” Diana agreed. “Indeed, I would go further, and say that we should get to know each other_ before _there is another enemy needing to be fought. To be effective in battle, allies must learn each other’s tactics, strengths, and weaknesses.”_

_“I’m game,” the Green Lantern agreed. “When I’m on the planet, anyway.”_

_They all looked at Batman; Wonder Woman and the Green Lantern with expectant smiles, Clark with an apprehensive grimace._

_“I agree,” Batman said, and Clark’s eyebrows rose. “Today proved that there are threats none of us can face on our own. I have some ideas about how we might be best able to train together; perhaps even a base of operations. Why don’t we meet back here in a month to discuss?”_

_“Can’t we just exchange phone numbers?” the Green Lantern commented. “You can do amazing things with group chats these days.”_

_“All current digital communications can be traced,” Batman said with a disapproving frown. “It’s not a good idea for us to exchange any personal information. Even if all of us are entirely trustworthy, it’s unnecessary knowledge and a weakness that could be exploited.”_

_“I could probably come up with something that couldn’t be hacked,” Clark commented. “I have some technology that came with me from Krypton that could be repurposed.”_

_Batman nodded shortly. “I have some experience with Kryptonian technology, actually, from a probe that landed on Earth about forty years ago.”_

_“You... you do?” Clark looked at him in shock._

_Batman looked over at Superman gravely; for the life of him, Clark could not read any expression in his eyes. “Perhaps we should talk.”_

_* * *_

**Flashback 5 - Ten months ago**

_“It’s not that I want to break up, Clark!” Lois said._

_“No? Cause ‘I’m not happy and I want to date other people’ kind of sounds like it to me,” Clark groused._

_“Okay, honey, I need you to listen to me this time. I love you. I_ _want you in my life. And I want us to keep having a romantic and sexual relationship,_ if _that’s what you want.”_

_Clark’s brow creased. “I mean… I’m in love with you, of course it’s what I want… but I want you to be happy, more.”_

_“I’m not happy, but I’m not unhappy with you.” Lois explained. “I’m unhappy because I miss the things I’ve given up to be with you.”_

_“Like what?”_

_“Like flirting with other people. Like going to sapphic events without feeling guilty about leaving you at home. Like having extensive alone time. Like a more variable sex life.”_

_“I see.”_

_“Do you?” Lois asked, looking at him closely. “I just… you want a relationship like your parents have. One where two people live and work and play together, and are so… wrapped up in each other that they don’t need anyone else. And I love you so much that I tried to give you that, but it isn’t working. You want to spend all day at work together and then come home and spend every night together, I just can’t do that anymore.”_

_“We spend a couple nights a week apart…” Clark protested._

_“Yeah, we do, because I insisted, and you miss me when we’re not together and are overjoyed to see me again and… I would be happier having a couple nights a week together and spending the rest of the time apart.”_

_“Oh,” Clark said softly._

_“And… Clark, don’t you think that’s a little codependent? I mean, you barely spend any time alone with Jimmy or your other friends anymore, cause I’m always there. You don’t go out to events unless I want to go, too. Remember when you and Jimmy used to go out dancing at the club once or twice a week? What did you call it?”_

_“Two Twinks on the Prowl,” Clark remembered fondly._

_“Don’t you miss that, at least a little?”_

_“Not really,” Clark said. “I still see Jimmy at work and game nights and when we’re all at parties and events and protests, Lo; I saw him every day last week. I didn’t stop going out dancing because we’re together, I stopped because I’m not under twenty-five anymore and staying out past two AM is exhausting.”_

_“Nice try, Clark. I’m five years older than you and I stay up past two AM all the time. Also,_ you don’t need _to_ sleep _.”_

 _Clark squirmed. “Okay, but we mainly did it to hook up with hot guys and… I don’t_ want _anyone else because I have you.”_

 _“You don’t want anyone else?” Lois looked aghast. “You mean you don’t even_ think _about it?”_

_Clark shook his head slowly. “I used to, when we first got together; it was fun fantasizing. But it doesn’t really even occur to me to do so anymore, unless I’m making stuff up while we’re going a scene.”_

_“I’ve been thinking about having sex with_ _other people all the time, even when we’re together,” Lois admitted. “It’s like… you’re my favorite food, but eating you all the time and nothing else makes me forget why I loved it so much originally.”_

_“That’s what she said,” Clark cracked sadly, trying and failing to lighten the mood._

_“I—I was hoping maybe we could try an open relationship,” Lois said. “But if you don’t even_ want _other people while you’re with me...”_

_They stood together for a moment in silence._

_“We’re breaking up, aren’t we?” Clark asked._

_Lois nodded, her eyes filling with tears._

_Later that night, Clark flew out to the Fortress to give Lois some space, and do some thinking of his own._

_He understood why she was worried about codependence, but really, he didn’t think he was. He didn’t get_ _depressed or anxious when they weren’t together, he didn’t feel like he_ couldn’t _do things without her. He’d just... rather she was around than not._

_But she didn’t want the same thing, and he didn’t see any way they could satisfy each other’s needs._

_Unless, maybe, he could learn to be in love with one person, but still want others._

_He slid a hand down between his legs, stroking himself lightly through his uniform, trying to think back to all the people he used to fantasize about._

_His professor from his natural sciences requirement in college, the hot blonde MILF, who he’d had to struggle to please on assignments? He’d used to love the idea of going in after hours, asking if maybe there was some other way to earn an A..._

_In his head, Lois_ _walked in front of a chalkboard, wearing an old-school cap and gown slit up the front, slapping a pointer on—_

_Okay, that wasn’t working._

_He’d had a fantasy or two about Perry that first year when he’d been a stringer—okay, so maybe he had a thing for older authority figures—but that was too close to home, he and Lois had actually had sex at the Daily Planet too many times for her not to get involved in that scenario._

_Well, hey, he’d never really thought about it seriously since he’d met her after he and Lois had already been together for a while, but really, how could any person attracted to women or to dominance not have a Wonder Woman fantasy? He pictured Diana as he’d last seen her, gold and red and blue outfit hugging all her curves, Lasso of Truth whipping through the air..._

_Lois stepped up and kissed Diana, melting in her arms, then they both turned back to Clark, beckoning, promising, commanding..._

_“Oh, for goodness sake,” Clark said aloud. Although, actually. Huh. Maybe that was something he should try to set up..._

_Clark chuckled as the other member of the Justice League that he had used to fantasize about sprung into his head. Not that his little crush on Bruce Wayne had lasted long once he’d found out what the man was actually like—grouchy, paranoid, egotistical, domineering..._

_Batman stepped into Clark’s mindscape. “What were you thinking, Superman?” he growled. “Leaping into action like that, without doing any reconnaissance—you could have gotten yourself killed.”_

_“But how would that ever happen with you to protect me?” Clark asked cheekily._

_Batman stalked closer, grabbed handfuls of Clark’s uniform in his massive fists, and pinned him against the wall. “One of these days I will find a way to make you take me seriously.”_

_“Yeah...” Clark whispered. “Make me, Batman.”_

_Batman growled and pushed him higher up the wall, sliding a leg between his thighs. Batman stabbed his tongue into Clark’s mouth, biting at his lips, practically eating his face..._

_Clark’s eyes flew open and he cried out for B as he came, not even sure afterward which name he'd used._

_“Oh, shit,” he panted._

* * *

**Back to the present...**

Finally, the ferry docked, and Clark ducked into one of the many alleyways around the docks, changed, and flew off home. Jimmy was out again tonight, visiting with his latest lover, so Clark had the tiny studio to himself.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he breathed, washing his hands and face with cold water.

Well. This wasn’t potentially a problem. He could just turn the job down. Bruce would continue to be lonely and Clark would continue to have money problems, but _ethically_ he’d be right with the world.

“Or I could get paid _half a million dollars_ to have months of scorching hot sex with the man I’ve been lusting after since Lois broke my heart.” Clark said to the bathroom mirror. His reflection looked solemnly back at him, offering no answers. “ _Shit._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, kudos and comments soothe the savage writer!


	5. Seeking Advice

Clark spent the next few days lost in uncharacteristic indecision. Normally, when he couldn’t figure out what the right thing to do was, he talked it out with someone close to him, but that wasn’t possible in this situation. He didn’t really feel comfortable discussing sexual matters with his mother; plus, she already felt guilty enough that she could not preserve the farm as a legacy for him, and he would not add to that burden. Telling Lois or Jimmy would out Bruce’s identity if Clark subsequently chose to take on the job. And… well, he could _scarcely_ confide in Batman! There was just no person he could ask for advice, here.

No _person_ …

Five minutes later, Clark walked into the heart of the Fortress of Solitude and activated his father’s hologram.

“Well met, Kal-El. How do you fare?”

“Not great, Jor-El. I need some advice.”

“Of course. What emergency faces the Earth today?”

“No—no emergency. I need… personal advice.”

Jor-El nodded with a slight, encouraging smile. “I would be delighted to aid you. What is wrong?”

Clark had thought a lot on the way about how to explain the situation to the Kryptonian AI, without remembering that he would be talking to a facsimile of his _father_. “It’s, um… kind of a question about a… romantic situation?”

The hologram of Jor-El brightened—literally, the light glinting off the crystal walls. “Lara and I held out hope that you would be able to find a partner and continue the El line in exile; the Fortress may assist in overcoming the procreative differences between our species and humans.”

“Oh, jeepers, Jor-El, no. I didn’t mean a romance like that, unfortunately. Even in the best-case scenario, there wouldn’t be any children would be resulting from it. Well, at least; that would continue the El line,” Clark added, remembering Robin.

“Ah, well,” Jor-El said, looking disappointed. “I would still be pleased to offer counsel. Say on.”

Clark looked up at the facsimile of his father and shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Um. Well. Actually—it’s nothing against you, Father, you know I’m happy to have you here, I just… I can’t have this conversation with a parent. Do you think you could… create someone else I could talk to? Like a… counselor?”

“Certainly.” Jor-El sounded a little miffed, but his image fuzzed out for a second, and when the hologram fuzzed back in, it was a woman, instead—no one Clark had ever seen, gray-haired and brown-eyed. “What counsel do you seek, Kal-El?” she asked in a low, soothing tone.

“I’ve been offered employment as a sexual companion to a high-status individual in our society,” Clark said, beginning the spiel he’d worked out on the way there. “I believe I would be excellent at this, I think I would enjoy it, and I really need the money, for something that is very important to me.”

The Counselor nodded. “As you know, Krypton did not have an equivalent to Earth’s bizarre system of exchanging “money” for goods and services. However, positions such as the one you describe were considered a respectful, if not particularly high-status, way of contributing to Kryptonian society. Indeed, some of our leading scientists and politicians held such positions briefly in their youth, as a way to build connections or resources while in training for their later careers. I assume your reservations stem from the stigma that Earth accords this trade?”

“No, actually—part of the deal is that no one will know that I’m being paid. A friend of mine did this earlier in her career, and no one found out or thinks badly of her because of it. My problem is… a little more complicated.” Clark took a deep breath. “You see, the man who has offered me this employment… is Batman, one of my fellow superheroes in the Justice League.” Despite the fact that telling, essentially, a computer—and one that couldn’t be hacked by any Earthly entity—couldn’t possibly be a danger to B or violate the NDA he’d signed, he still felt incredibly awkward saying it out loud.

“I have been attracted to him for a while, so that makes me want to do this even more,” Clark continued. “Unfortunately, this came about because his _civilian_ identity offered the position to mine. Batman doesn’t know that I’m aware of his civilian identity, and obviously he doesn’t know mine. He’s always refused to share real names. I don’t know if it’s okay for me to lie—even by omission—about all that! But I don’t think he’d let me take the job if he knew that I’m Superman, and I _know_ he’d freak if he found out that I know who he is. He’s always kept me at arm’s length. He’s paranoid about protecting his identity—that’s at least partly why he wants this kind of an arrangement.” Clark finished this speech in a rush, breathing heavily.

The Counselor nodded gravely. “I see. An interesting dilemma, to be sure. Let us approach it methodically.”

“Okay…”

“Firstly, you evidently do not feel that it is wrong, in general, to be in a romantic or sexual relationship with someone without disclosing your identity—and clearly, neither does Batman. True?”

“Well… no. I mean, yeah, that’s true. I’ve thought about that a lot—in fact, I’ve also discussed it as a general policy with other people in the League, including Batman, and we’ve agreed that it’s not wrong—in fact, it’s very smart and important—to keep our identities a secret until we get into more of a committed relationship.”

“Indeed. Therefore, your ethical qualms have more to do with your knowing your colleague’s identity, than him not knowing yours. After all, if you did _not_ know his identity, you would have no reservations about accepting the position?”

“I—huh.” Clark hadn’t thought about it that way, but certainly he’d had no _ethical_ qualms about taking on the position until he’d found out that B was the client. “No, I wouldn’t. I’d definitely want to take it. I was actually already attracted to his civilian identity before I knew it was him.”

“And is there anything about knowing his identity that makes you less _qualified_ to serve as his companion?”

Clark furrowed his brow. “Well… not really. I mean, if anything, I think me knowing who he is makes me better qualified. I’m not a risk to his identity, since I already know. And I can help him keep it a secret. Plus, I know more than any other person he could hire about who he really is, so I can probably offer better emotional support.”

The Counselor nodded. “Would you be more likely to hurt him, if you accept the position?”

Clark gave that one a lot of thought. “Well, he’ll be pissed for sure, if he ever finds out,” he said finally. “It’d probably make him trust me even less. But I don’t think he’d really feel _hurt_. He’s not emotionally invested in me as a coworker—he’s always made it clear that he doesn’t completely trust me, so I don’t see how he could feel that I’d violated that trust. And he doesn’t emotionally invest in his lovers at all, that’s the point of the whole arrangement.”

“I do not believe, in that case, that this poses a significant ethical problem, then,” the Counselor concluded. “There is a slight one, in that you are knowingly hiding information that might change his actions. But that is true anytime you engage in a relationship while keeping part of your identity secret. That level of dubious consent in your relationships is a price you pay for being able to have them at all without endangering yourself.”

Clark nodded. The fact that he was, to some extent, compromising potential lovers’ consent by not disclosing his full identity—and that they might, if and when they learned his secret, be angered by it—was something he’d long ago considered and accepted. In the long run, he’d decided, it simply wasn’t ethically required or reasonable for him to disclose something that could endanger his and his loved ones’ lives prior to dating or having sex with people.

“However,” the Counselor added. “I do think you need to consider the potential ramifications on yourself, as well as on your prospective employer.”

Clark cocked his head. “How so?”

“You already have feelings for this person, yes?” the Counselor asked.

“Well… I don’t know him all that well. We’ve really interacted only as allies in the league. I respect and admire him, and I’m attracted to him. I don’t know that I’d say I have romantic feelings for him. He’s kind of a dick.”

The Counselor gave Clark a withering glance for his equivocations, and he hung his head guiltily. Jor-El had outdone himself with this programming, really… “Okay, so I guess I could see myself _developing_ feelings for him pretty easily.”

“Yet, you have concluded that this engagement will not result in any kind of long-term romance and, in fact, might lead to a worsening in your relationship with Batman,” the Counselor pointed out. “I think you must further evaluate the potential reward versus risk involved in this proposition. What is the probability that your identity will be discovered? How likely are you to be able to maintain the necessary emotional distance to avoid being hurt when your time of service ends? Is there really no chance that Batman might be interested in pursuing a more ordinary romantic relationship with you, if you were open about your identity and your feelings with him?” The Counselor finished up this litany of questions and gave Clark a sympathetic glance. “I do not wish to see your heart broken, Kal-El.”

Clark sighed, staring down into the hypnotic opalescence of the crystal floor. “Yeah. Me neither.”

* * *

Since, for once, there were no global emergencies requiring Superman’s intervention, Clark stayed at the Fortress through the evening, puttering around in the Kryptonian database and trying to come to a decision. He felt a little better about the ethics of the situation after talking it out with the Counselor, but not really any closer to making a choice.

To make matters worse, he had monitoring duty on the Watchtower that evening, and for the first time since their blowup at the League meeting a few days earlier, Batman was scheduled to take the monitoring shift immediately after him, which meant they had to make social niceties and discuss the happenings of the day to ensure Batman was fully briefed before taking over the watch.

“Look, Kal…” Batman interrupted Clark’s rundown, rubbing the back of his neck a bit, which looked rather humorous with him wearing the cowl. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings the other day.”

Clark looked at him in shock. That was probably the nicest thing Batman had ever said to him, and certainly the closest he’d ever heard him get to apologizing to _anyone_.

“Diana took me to task a bit—apparently she overheard part of our conversation from down the hallway,” Batman added, and Clark “ahhed” in understanding and a little embarrassment. He tended to forget that Wonder Woman had enhanced senses too, albeit not as powerful as his own. “But… I would have said something anyway. I phrased myself badly. It’s not that you’re not trustworthy or that I wouldn’t want to be your friend. Quite the opposite, in fact.” He paused, and Clark watched in fascination as the parts of Batman’s skin that he could see—mainly around his lips and eyes, where the lead-lined cowl didn’t protect him—darkened ever so slightly. Was he _blushing_?

“There are situations in which anyone can be corrupted, or coerced, or controlled,” Batman was explaining. “Hell, we’ve already had that last happen to you at least once!” Clark nodded, wincing. “I can’t be friends with you and still be on guard for something like that. I wouldn’t—if we built any more of a relationship than we already have, I couldn’t guarantee that I could be objective if I had to fight you.”

Clark’s eyes widened in astonishment and pleasure. “I—I get that, B. I understand. And I appreciate you saying something.”

Batman nodded, and they continued the briefing; Clark’s mind, however, was elsewhere, and racing. He’d walked—well, run—away from their last encounter thinking that there was no chance that B would ever want even a friendly acquaintanceship with him. Now, B seemed to be outright _saying_ that he wanted more—maybe a lot more, reading between the lines—but didn’t think that it was safe.

The paranoid bastard. 

Well, what Clark was considering would solve that problem—B wouldn’t be any less on guard for a rogue Superman if he didn’t know that Superman and his lover were one and the same. And if he ever found out—well, his anger at being deceived would probably restore his objectivity pretty well…

But that just brought the ethical issues right back up. Clark now knew, explicitly, that however much he might _desire_ it, B would not choose to be in a relationship with Clark if he knew that Clark was Superman. Clark thought he had a solution that would negate B’s reasons for that decision, but with no way to tell him… did that mean that he had the right to overrule B’s choice?

As they wrapped up the briefing, a lightbulb hit.

“Actually, there’s a thing maybe you could help me with, B.” Clark said. “An ethical question.”

Batman cocked his head to the side. “Okay…?”

“I—there’s a person, who I think I’d like to date. In my civilian identity,” Clark explained, groping quickly for a cover story. “She doesn’t know I’m Superman, of course.” Batman nodded.

“Unfortunately, she doesn’t think much of Superman—she’s a cop, and doesn’t like the whole vigilante thing,” Clark fabricated wildly. Hopefully, if B could tell that he was lying—well, B could almost certainly tell he was lying—but hopefully, he’d think it was just about the circumstances and details, in order to hide Clark’s identity. “So… I mean, given that I know she wouldn’t be willing to date _Superman_ , I’m questioning whether it would be ethical to date her at all.”

Batman steepled his fingers before his mouth for a second. “Where on the dating spectrum are we talking about? From, say,”—he put his hands out on either side of his body, palms up, and lifted each hand slightly in time with his next words—“potential wedding bells to near-anonymous sex?”

“In the middle, but much farther toward the latter.” Clark said firmly. “We’d be spending some time together outside of the bedroom, maybe doing some emotional support, but explicitly no strings, no commitment.”

“Oh! In that case, I don’t think there’s any problem,” Batman said airily. “Good for you; I didn’t think you were the kind for casual sex. To be honest, I always kind of figured you and Diana would get together one of these days.”

Clark choked. “I—uh. Diana… I don’t think she—um. Anyway. You really don’t think it’s a problem?”

Batman snorted. “You forget, Batman isn’t exactly the beloved national icon that Superman is. At the very best, people grudgingly admit he’s not entirely a bad thing. If I refused to go out with people who didn’t like Batman, I’d pretty much never have sex at all. I’d say that ninety percent of the people I’ve ever slept with would recoil in horror if they knew they’d been in the same room as Batman, let alone…” he shrugged.

Clark nodded awkwardly.

“Not that I should be taken as any kind of a moral guide,” Batman added.

“No, that really helps.” Clark said. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Clark turned to leave, but just as he reached the door, Batman called out. “Hey—”

Clark turned apprehensively. “Y—Yes?”

“Can you even…” Batman squirmed a bit in his seat. “This is a little nosy, but I have to ask. Are you sure you can _have_ sex without people figuring out what you are? I mean… you don’t bruise, you don’t sweat…”

“Oh!” Clark said, coloring. That was true, of course, but he didn’t particularly want to get into the methods he used to get around it with Bruce. “Well, in my experience, I’ve found that most regular people are pretty unobservant; especially, you know… then.”

“Huh,” Batman said. “Well, I guess. Good luck.”

“Thanks, B.” Clark smiled, and left.

The next day, he called the number on the inside of the manila flap and set up an interview with Bruce as Clark Kent. He’d try and stay emotionally detached but… hey. Half a million dollars and several months of great sex were probably worth a broken heart.


	6. In Which There is Much Talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and Chapter 8 were originally one chapter, but the boys would just *not* stop talking and get to fucking already, so I ended up splitting them up (with a needed mea culpa in between).

Clark finished the last of his interview questions and leaned back in the comfortable office chair, twisting the kryptonite ring on his finger and just barely keeping himself from idly kicking the back of Bruce’s desk out of nervous energy. Perry had quickly approved his request to do a “Five Out and Proud Power Executives” feature—fluff always sold well—and it had been fairly easy to get interviews granted from the usual suspects: Tim Cook, Peter Thiel, Martine Rothblatt, Megan Smith, and, of course, Bruce Wayne. He’d do the others by phone, but it made sense that he would interview Bruce in person, since Gotham was close enough to Metropolis to allow it without breaking Perry’s purse. Lois had helped him put together some fairly hard-hitting questions on what his interviewees had chosen to sacrifice or abandon in order to achieve their successes, and how—if at all—they were working to change things for the next generation.

Fortunately, Bruce had given charming, insightful answers to his questions, so he’d be able to present him such that readers wouldn’t be surprised to subsequently hear that they were dating. Of course, Bruce had _had_ to show off by doing so while leaning against the back of his desk rather than sitting at the front like a normal person, and without referring to any notes at all. It was playing havoc with Clark’s senses, which had skipped into overdrive the minute Bruce’s fingers had swept caressingly past his pulse point in their opening handshake—just from their _hands_ touching, what the fuck. Clark’s hindbrain continued to urgently remind him that the most desirable person in the world—as far as it was concerned, anyway—was looming over him from barely two feet away, with nothing in between them but empty space. Clark had never been someone who found purely physical attributes sexually attractive—it was usually the personality, and even more, the dynamic between him and his partner, that got him going. Nonetheless, in this situation, his purely aesthetic appreciation of Bruce—with his piercing dark blue-gray eyes, black hair just lightly touched with frost, finely carved features, and powerfully built frame, only somewhat hidden by the expensive tailoring of his suit—melded with his knowledge of the man’s intelligence, deep convictions and passion, and sheer dominance, and produced an attraction that shocked Clark with its intensity.

He also found it interesting that Bruce was willing to go so out of character—Bruce Wayne wasn’t exactly known for an encyclopedic knowledge of what his company did—but then, it was becoming more and more clear that the reason Bruce had set up this system was that he simply wasn’t able to satisfy his sexual needs while staying completely within his playboy persona.

“…and we’re setting up an internship program—paid, all of WE’s internships are paid—specifically for LGBTQ students.” Bruce finished, spreading his large hands over the expensive black cashmere suit pants straining to hide his muscular thighs.

“Thanks,” Clark said, clicking off his recorder. “Really—I realize we needed some kind of meet-cute, but we could have just run into each other at a fundraiser or something, you didn’t have to go the extra mile. I think this’ll be a great article.”

“Least I could do,” Bruce replied. “I look forward to reading it—I’ve been a fan of your work for a while.” 

“Well,” Clark said. “You’ve been more than generous in letting me grill you—time to switch gears?”

Bruce chuckled. “Yes, though I hope this can be a mutual interview. Honestly, Clark, you wouldn’t be in this room if I hadn’t pretty much made up my mind on you already. Granted, we could have found out when you walked in that we didn’t have any real chemistry, but,”—Bruce leaned forward and stroked two fingers along Clark’s jaw from chin to ear. Clark leaned into it with a shiver—“that’s clearly not the case.”

“No,” Clark agreed, swallowing.

“So,” Bruce continued, eyes glinting. “Firstly, tell me why _you’re_ doing this.”

Clark nodded, taking a deep breath and straightening in his chair. “My father passed away last year, and my mom has been struggling to pay the mortgage on our farm with him gone—and we were having trouble before then, too, with medical bills. I’ve been helping as I can, but I’ve barely been making ends meet, and now the taxes and insurance are coming due, and we can’t afford them. My mom doesn’t want me to sacrifice anything for her; she’s ready to sell, but—I love that place. I often felt out of place at school, so the house and barn, the gardens right around there, they were my refuge, my safe place. I want to save them if I can.

“Also, to be frank—”

“And here I thought you were Clark, not Frank,” Bruce murmured. “I’m sorry,” he laughed when Clark shot him an unbelieving glance, “I’ve gotten into the habit of making dad jokes the past couple years, with a kid at home.”

“Anyway,” Clark continued, with a laughing glare. “When Lois first brought this up, I was willing to consider it, but wasn’t sure if it would be a good idea. When I found out it was you, though… I’ve had—I guess you could call it a celebrity crush—on you for a while. So that definitely had an impact in me saying yes.” Clark blushed furiously, but he felt like he owed it to Bruce to at least admit that.

Bruce nodded, with a satisfied smile settling over his face. “Well, I can’t fault your taste,” he joked. “Clearly I’m irresistible, dad-jokes and all.” Clark laughed as well, albeit partly in sympathy for the bad jokes.

“That all sounds like the kind of motivations I can trust,” Bruce continued. “Given that… you’ve probably picked up that I’m not quite the feckless playboy that my reputation makes me out to be.” Clark blinked, surprised.

“It’s both a coping mechanism and a tactic that I’ve worked out,” Bruce explained. “When I was a child, after my parents passed away… I had a hard time dealing with the press prying into every aspect of my life and forcing it to meet a narrative that would sell copy. In my twenties that struggle drove me into running away—I traveled the world incognito, trying to escape my name and history. Eventually, I realized that I was failing my parents’ legacy, and returned. While I was gone other people had taken over Wayne Enterprises, including some very unscrupulous and power-hungry individuals. Playing ‘Brucie’ Wayne, the drunk fool, allowed me to stay out of their crosshairs while I built up the power to take back the company. And during that time, I found that when the media narrative about me was mostly an invention—something I created and controlled—it was easier to bear.”

Clark nodded, fascinated. Despite _knowing_ that every word of this was an invention, he found himself almost buying it: Bruce’s delivery was that convincing, and the story itself so believable—much more so than the idea that a billionaire was running around as a costumed vigilante. This must be Bruce’s fallback plan, for when people noticed the occasional inconsistency in his portrayal of Bruce Wayne. It was a brilliant way to compensate for the biggest weakness in the whole setup—that no one could play a part _all the time_ without occasional slip-ups, at least without risking serious mental health problems.

“I have my foster father and my ward, at home, and protecting them is always my top priority,” Bruce continued. “And I have friends and coworkers who know the truth, who I can be myself around. But none of them are people I would feel comfortable inviting into a no-strings sexual relationship, which is all I really want. I could sleep around as Brucie—I do, occasionally—but unfortunately, the kind of sex that that guy can plausibly have is not all that appealing to me. I’ve had a couple close calls with angry ex-lovers threatening to do tell-all features, looking for a payday. And honestly, I don’t have the capacity to do the kind of emotional labor that long-term romantic partners inevitably seem to demand. I’m maybe aromantic? Or just damaged irreparably.” Bruce smiled that off as a joke, but Clark’s heart ached for him. Of course, Bruce might well be aromantic, nothing wrong with that—but regardless, he wasn’t broken, and Clark hated that he’d internalized that so much that he would joke about it.

“So, I decided that rather than having to pay off lovers and make them sign NDAs after we’d gotten tired of each other, I’d do it up-front, and at least not have to worry about playing Brucie with them,” Bruce concluded.

When Bruce seemed to be done, Clark responded slowly, thinking through each word before he stated it. “I’m not going to lie and say I can’t see myself wanting something real if that was on the table,” he said. “I’m that kind of guy—I always saw myself settling down with someone, doing the whole marriage, kids, picket fence kinda thing. I thought it would be Lois, for a while, before we realized we wanted different things out of a relationship.”

Bruce nodded with an understanding grimace, and Clark shrugged. “But I respect that that’s not what you’re looking for, and for the record, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, or with you. I won’t promise not to fall in love with you—” Bruce laughed somewhat derisively at that, and Clark chuckled back, as if it were a funny, remote prospect. If only Bruce knew…

“But I will promise not to make _my_ emotions _your_ problem,” Clark continued. “I’m pretty good at compartmentalizing, and in control of how I let my emotions affect my interactions with people—well, Lois and I are still best friends, which speaks pretty well to my ability to maintain a relationship with someone without letting my thwarted romantic longings get in the way,” he finished with a self-mocking laugh. 

“Well said,” Bruce replied. “And, you understand that part of your role would be helping me maintain my public persona? You wouldn’t have a problem dealing with the way I act in public?”

“Like a lot of queer boys, I was a theater kid,” Clark said. “I love a good intrigue. Pulling one over all of high society—that sounds like fun to me. As long as you don’t mind me taking advantage of the opportunity to fuck with them, too; get on my soapboxes a little, maybe?”

Bruce’s eyes sparkled. “Not at all. They’ll expect to see you using me.” They smiled at each other in perfect accord. “Well, those are the heavy issues I needed to bring up. How about we discuss logistics, next? Obviously, you being in Metropolis complicates things, so I want to make sure we can work that out. In general, I’m busy from mid-morning well into the night—and I expect you would be, too—so most of the time I’d want you to be available are occasional evenings, for public appearances, and the wee hours into the mornings, for sex.” Clark blushed, and Bruce grinned briefly at his discomfiture. “Ideally, you’d come over and sleep at the flat a few nights a week—”

“Actually,” Clark interrupted. “Selina said that most of your companions had lived at the flat, and that seems like it would be the easiest setup.”

Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “You want to add a three-hour round-trip commute to your schedule every day?”

Clark smiled. “It’s not the 20th century anymore—about two-thirds of my work is done via the internet already. The _Daily Planet_ likes its salaried reporters to spend regular time in the office—it helps to build community and camaraderie—but a lot of my coworkers work from home a few days a week. The only reason I haven’t, to be honest, is because I couldn’t afford to duplicate the kind of computer setup and space I have at the office. And as far as the commute for the days I do need to go in,” Clark shrugged, “I couldn’t find a place I could afford alone in New Troy after Lois and I broke up, although she’s kind enough to let me crash on her couch occasionally. I currently live in Bakersville. _North_ Bakersville. The trip from Gotham is still going to be longer, of course, but at least it won’t be on the subways the entire way, nestled cheek-to-cheek with other commuters. On the ferries there’s almost always room to pull out a laptop and get some real work done.”

“Gotcha,” Bruce said with a sympathetic crooked smile. “Well, that would work very well for me, and we can set up a good home office for you. In that case, we can do this one of two ways. I can have you ‘on-call’ at certain times and days, which is what Selina probably suggested, since she thought you’d be living in Metropolis. Or, you can just keep me informed of your schedule, and I’ll give you a head’s up—at least an hour’s warning, let’s say—before I’d like to come over. In the latter system, you can always say you need some extra time if you’re in the middle of something; say, three hours to wrap things up and be at home and ready.”

“So, I can have more freedom to be out of the house whenever I want, but at the price of always needing to be available to come back within a reasonable time frame,” Clark summarized.

“Basically,” Bruce agreed. “Although again, you’re welcome to block out time in advance when you know you’ll be busy, for work or socializing, whatever. I’d let you know if I felt you weren’t available enough, and we could change things up. Whichever system we pick initially, for that matter, we can change if it’s not working.”

Clark pursed his lips for a second. He felt a little disappointed that he wouldn’t get to exercise his ingenuity so that he _seemed_ to be at home during his “on-call” time, but it was silly to do so when Bruce was offering to provide notice before he showed up. It wasn’t like Clark would have trouble getting back to the apartment at a moment’s notice, let alone an hour. Besides… he _wanted_ to be available to Bruce whenever Bruce needed him, as long as he had the freedom to prioritize other things if necessary. Which was, perhaps, the clearest indicator yet that he was already in too deep.

“That sounds fine to me—the always on-call system, I mean.” Clark said. “But as long as we’re discussing logistics, there’s something I should bring up—I get really bad migraines. I’ve only had three in the past year, so it’s nothing that hinders my job or anything, but if this continues past a few months, it’s likely that at some point when we’re together, I’d get one. When that happens, any noise or light adds to the pain. Fortunately, I always get some minor symptoms a while before the real pain hits, so—I’d just need to hurry home, take some meds, put on a blindfold with an ice pack and some earplugs, and zonk out. Alone, if you don’t mind getting kicked out of your own apartment—I prefer to be on my own when I’m feeling crappy.”

Clark was fairly proud of this particular invention—he’d used headaches occasionally as an excuse to get away from work or friends, along with most other sicknesses known to man, but when he’d done some research, he’d realized how incredibly perfect migraines would be as an excuse—migraine sufferers really did get debilitating headaches with often little to no warning, plenty of them didn’t respond at all well to treatment, and they could last anywhere from minutes to days. Of course, he felt a little bad using it that way, but—well, there it was, as the Fortress Counselor had said, keeping a secret identity was inherently a little unethical. He figured saving the world occasionally made up for it.

Bruce nodded, slowly. Clark mentally crossed his fingers that Bruce hadn’t actually looked into his medical records. But realistically, if he had, then Bruce was playing him—he didn’t fool himself that the Fortress’ forgeries would have been able to stand up to the greatest detective in the world. “I’m sorry to hear that—I’ve known a few people with migraines, and I know they’re no fun at all. I have no problem with you ‘kicking me out’—it’s going to be _your_ home, even if I’m paying for it. Anyway, if you’re not feeling well, there’s no reason for me to be there.” 

Clark smirked briefly and raised an eyebrow, knowing Bruce didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Sure enough, Bruce flushed.

“I mean, not that I wouldn’t want to be around you just because you weren’t feeling well, I just meant—you said you preferred to be alone, and I’m no good at sick visits, anyway.”

Well, Clark knew that wasn’t true—he remembered being surprised by how gentle and soothing of a visitor Batman was, when he’d been recuperating on the Watchtower.

“No worries, Bruce, I knew what you meant.”

“Well, and just to be clear, you can always call out ‘sick’ if you’re just not feeling up to it, like any other job. Admittedly, if that started happening all the time, I’d think we should probably move on, but I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“I appreciate you making that clear,” Clark acknowledged. “I did have a few other things we should discuss—I mean, unless you had something else? I don’t mean to hijack—”

Bruce laughed. “Please, go ahead.”

Clark flushed. “Right. Well. Selina said that you would be in control, in the bedroom—which I’m more than fine with, by the way—but I have a couple issues I wanted to bring up that the questionnaire didn’t really cover...”

“Good.”

“I—good, really?”

Bruce chuckled. “Clark, as you may have gathered, I’ve had a lot of sex over the years, and I’ve yet to meet anyone whose sexual preferences could be summed up in a form, no matter how detailed. That you’re bringing up other issues up front means that you’re experienced enough sexually to know what they are, that you’re honest, and that you’re taking this seriously. So, yes, that’s absolutely a good sign.”

Clark smiled back at him. “I didn’t think about it that way, but that makes sense. So, firstly, I know it’s a little weird, but I really don’t like to take my glasses off during sex. I’m blind as a bat without them,”—Clark winced inwardly when those words came out of his mouth, but it was what he usually said, dammit!—“and, um, I just feel really anxious when I can’t see.”

Realistically, if Bruce hadn’t figured out that his identity yet, taking the glasses off wasn’t likely to do it. The distortion tech built into the Superman suit was the real protection… but it couldn’t disguise Clark’s eyes without impairing his vision, and Batman had had far more opportunities to study Superman’s retinas from up close than most people. Hell, he almost certainly had them on file. Better safe than sorry.

Fortunately, Bruce was shrugging. “Sure, that’s not a problem. I did see from the questionnaire that you said sensory deprivation was okay, though?”

“Um, right,” Clark winced. “I don’t mind being completely blind, with a blindfold or something. It’s the blurriness that creeps me out, I guess?” He shrugged helplessly, unable to think of any further explanation.

“That’s fine,” Bruce assured him, and he barely kept himself from sighing in relief. “You don’t have to explain yourself, I just wanted to make sure I had it right.”

Clark smiled. “Okay. Thanks. Um, secondly—obviously, if you read my blog then you know that I’m nonbinary.”

Bruce smiled. “Yes, and while we’re talking about it, your blog has been really helpful and educational for me. I assume there are some things you need to brief me on, related to that and sex?”

“Exactly,” Clark smiled, relieved. “Basically… I don’t have too much dysphoria, but the way the gender binary works just has no real connection for me. As you know, I do like using he/him pronouns, being called boy, man, etc., but depending on context, I like some feminine terms too, especially endearments—I put the ones I like on the form, I appreciated that you included that section.”

Bruce smiled slightly. “I can’t really take credit there, I added it after reading one of your articles.”

Clark laughed, and continued. “I haven’t had nor do I want bottom surgery, but I am on testosterone. And I’m fine with having penetrative sex of any type.”

Of course, this was all not exactly, or even mostly, true—Clark didn’t need to take T and had never had _any_ surgeries, for starters—but that was the easiest way to explain his physiology, which simply didn’t match what most humans thought of as “normal” (not that those perceptions were very accurate, either). He had dealt with occasional pangs of guilt about the position he held in the queer/trans community, given that misrepresentation; however, his lived experience basically matched how he presented himself. The Kents had assumed that he was the female of his species, until Clark had reached puberty and found his body going through voice breaking and hair growth instead of menstruation and breast development. Clark had been nothing but relieved at that, however, and his subsequent admission to the Kents that he’d _never_ felt like he was a girl had been relatively well-received. He’d explored presenting as a man—obviously, as Superman he still did, not that _he’d_ come up with the name—but that didn’t really fit for him either, though it was closer. After extensive talks with Jor-El and researching the Fortress database, he’d concluded that Kryptonian sex and gender just didn’t have any real analog to how humans thought of things. Eventually, figuring out what parts of his gender were Kryptonian, Earth-based, intrinsic, or extrinsic just got too confusing and brain-melting, and he’d decided there were better uses of his time than figuring them out. He went with what worked.

Bruce was nodding. “Do you have specific terms you prefer for your body parts?”

Clark shrugged. “Not really. Dick or cockpit are better than the alternatives, but… to be honest, I’m really not wild about dirty talk using explicit terms, so it really shouldn’t come up. But if you need to use a term to ask a question or something, I’m not going to get upset about anything you say in the heat of the moment.” He grinned briefly. “I’m more concerned about what you do with them than what you call them.”

Bruce smiled back. “Fortunately, that’s the part I’m good at!”

Clark chuckled and pushed on, wanting to get through all the potentially awkward bits at once. “Finally, I’m pretty kinky and okay with some roughness, so I said yes to pretty much all the impact and pain play options on the questionnaire. But I do have some hard limits—I’m not okay with anything that would break my skin or injure me in any way that would last past a couple hours—basically anything more than limited and localized bruising is _not_ okay. Though I don’t mark or bruise easily, so that leaves you plenty of room to play with!” Clark smiled nervously. “Oh, and no burns, either; other than, like, wax or something mild like that.”

Clark took a deep breath, hoping that Bruce wouldn’t think he was being overly fussy or demanding. When he’d sat down to work out what he needed to say, he hadn’t liked the length of his list, but if he wanted to keep his identity a secret, none of the items were negotiable. Clark’s body would react just like a human’s while he was wearing the blue kryptonite ring, but he would heal as soon as he took it off. Most of the time when he was bruised or scraped while wearing the ring, he was able to fob people off with a “oh yeah, I’m a quick healer”—and that was on the rare occasion that someone noticed anything unusual at all. As he’d told Batman, humans were generally remarkably unperceptive. But Bruce wasn’t a normal observer, to put it mildly, which meant he couldn’t be allowed to do anything to Clark that he would expect to see signs of in subsequent sessions.

Fortunately, Bruce was nodding matter-of-factly. “Yeah, I’ve thought about putting intensity options on the questionnaire, but I figured it’s long and complicated enough already, and that kind of thing should really be talked out in person, anyway. I appreciate you being so open and clear about your boundaries, Clark, and I have no issues with any of them. My kinks are quite satisfied with exerting control over you while you’re with me—I don’t see any need to leave lasting marks, and certainly no injuries, on your body. I do like to inflict some pain, but we can start light and work our way up.” He caught Clark’s eyes in a very direct, intense gaze, and Clark’s mouth went dry. “I look forward to helping you learn and explore your limits—I don’t want to cross them. As long as you can continue to speak up about how you’re feeling and react honestly and openly to what I do to you, I don’t anticipate us having any problems.”

Clark took a deep breath, shifting in his seat as the base of his spine literally tingled with arousal. He didn’t think he’d ever been so worked up without having actually done or seen anything overtly sexual. Part of it, he was sure, was just how long he’d been lusting after Bruce. Repressed desire could create quite a bit of blowback when it was finally set free. But most of it came from Bruce’s sheer aura of dominance, pushing every button Clark had. That aura had frequently gotten to him just from being ordered around by Batman in the field, no matter how much he’d tried to suppress it—it was ten times more powerful in this more intimate setting.

“That’s all I wanted to bring up.”

“And I don’t have anything to add,” Bruce agreed. “That was very thorough, Clark, thank you.”

Clark refused to acknowledge how much that little bit of praise got to him.

“So, in that case—” Bruce leaned back further against his desk and twisted to grab two stapled documents, but kept his eyes on Clark—“ready to sign your life away?”

The older man grinned cheerfully when he said that, but Clark knew it wasn’t really a joke. For all the limitations they’d just discussed, and regardless of how much he trusted Bruce not to abuse them, he was volunteering to put himself entirely into the other man’s power for the next nine months, and he didn’t kid himself that he would find it easy to call it quits, even though on paper he could do so at any time. It probably said _something_ about him that the prospect sent a pleasant thrum of anticipation through him rather than any apprehension. He met Bruce’s gaze steadily and stood, moving forward to stand right next to where Bruce was still leaning against the desk, and grabbed the pen to sign the document.

Clark licked his lips. “I am.”

The contract was a simple cross-sign on the last page—Clark knew it wasn’t legally enforceable anyway, and was more to make sure the two of them were on the same page about expectations and responsibilities—but the NDA required that he go through and initial every paragraph. He worked through it steadily, very aware of Bruce leaning next to him. He finished with a flourish and then leaned back against the desk himself while Bruce walked around it to a copy machine sitting on a counter against the wall. Bruce stuck the originals into a drawer, locked it, and walked back around to hand Clark his copies. When Clark accepted them, he saw that there was a cashier’s check from the First Bank of Gotham on top, made out to himself, for $250,000. His hand shook a little, his mind screaming. He’d never held a quarter-million dollars before.

“Out of curiosity,” Bruce said. “What are you going to tell your mother and friends about how you can suddenly pay off the mortgage?”

“That I got an unexpected donation from someone who prefers to remain anonymous,” Clark said absently, still staring at the check. “I’ve been running a Patreon to support my blogging and activism since we started having money issues on the farm. It doesn’t bring in anything at this level, of course, but it’s not _impossible_ that someone could have read it and then decided to call me up and offer to solve my problems.”

“Maybe somebody did,” Bruce said in a lilting tone. Clark glanced up in shock, and Bruce shrugged. “Hey, I’m a CEO, not a saint. I’m not saying I might not have decided to help anyway, but since you were so perfectly situated to fill my needs… and I could fix yours… seemed like a match made in heaven.”

Clark sputtered a bit in outrage—he couldn’t believe Bruce had set him up, and somehow managed to convince Lois it was her idea—but he couldn’t maintain it in the face of Bruce’s insouciance. And anyway, wasn’t it better this way? Bruce was using him, he was getting off on being used… they both had secrets, and neither had a moral high horse to fall off of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone who caught it: yes, Clark is intentionally quoting Ever After. I couldn't resist the reference, and no way Clark wouldn't love that movie. "You were born to privilege, and with that comes specific obligations..."


	7. Apologia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's note/trigger warning

**_This is NOT part of the story. If you don’t care about trigger warnings or writing mechanics and just want to get on with the continuation of the scene from the Chapter 6, feel free to go ahead and click thru to Chapter 8._ **

I have one big caveat/trigger warning, especially for any nonbinary/trans readers, as we move into the explicit part of this fic (and yes, after that slow burn, there is going to be a LOT of sex moving forward). After some experimentation, I eventually decided to have Clark be trans-masc nonbinary in this fic (he doesn’t call himself trans onscreen for reasons, but there are clearly some parallels there), because I don’t see enough trans/nonbinary characters in fic and I didn't want to write two cis men as the main characters, given that I don’t spend time with cis guys like, ever. (Plus, c’mon, why should Kryptonians have the same sexes/genders that humans have constructed?) I asked my beta readers (one is a cis woman, three are varying types of nonbinary, and one is a trans man) to let me know how they felt it worked and I also did an additional sensitivity check just of the concept (with two other trans men and an intersex trans woman).

My beta readers all really enjoyed the fic and were excited to have an erotica with a trans/enby character. However, some of the people I asked to do sensitivity checks were worried that I was using Clark, as a trans-masc enby, to “stand-in” for myself, as a cis woman. I had to admit upon reflection that, I was doing just that, at least in part. I definitely didn’t write my Clark as a woman—I can’t conceive of him in this fic as a woman—but I did write him the way I did partly because this fic is so much in his head and it felt easier and sexier for me to write the physical sensations of someone who, to be blunt, has more similar genitalia to me than a cis guy would (and the ability to have multiple orgasms, which was actually the bigger issue when I looked at a potential rewrite). I do get now how that’s problematic. And yeah, I might have a hitherto-unidentified kink for genderplay, which I will explore in more responsible ways in the future. (Learning and growth are important! Thank you so much to all who checked me on this!)

So. I’m sorry for doing that. It was shitty. I’m not going to write a trans/enby character in that way again. That said... my trans/enby beta-readers still really appreciated this fic and after talking to them, I decided not to take that away from them and others by rewriting Clark as cis. Instead, I did some rewrites based on the suggestions I'd received, and am providing the fic with this apology for its problematic origins. Please also be aware that none of the trans/enby people who read the sex scenes have sexual dysphoria, so I can’t promise that the rest of this fic won’t be triggering for someone who does. Please take care in reading further if that’s an issue for you.

One checker also commented that writing a character who is explicitly an alien/inhuman in a fic otherwise populated by humans as trans/enby is potentially problematic. That’s also a totally fair point, and I apologize for that as well. I’ve always thought of Clark as perhaps the most human character in the DCU, and see his Kryptonian heritage as a very blatant metaphor for being Jewish—which is largely why I love Clark—so that honestly didn’t even occur to me as an issue.

Okay! That long caveat over... there will now be porn! Hope you enjoy it.


	8. In Which There Is Finally Less Talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty much just porn. Specific acts/triggers are listed in the endnote. Also, if you are trans or nonbinary, please read the caveat in the last chapter. Chapters 6 and 8 were originally one chapter before I divided them for length, so this continues on pretty much directly from where Chapter 6 let off.

Alright,” Bruce said at the end of his and Clark’s logistical discussion, the two of them still standing at the back of Bruce’s desk. Leaning against heavy wooden piece of furniture, Bruce absently shuffled the papers that Clark had just signed. “Let’s plan to have you moved in by the first, then—that’ll give us a bit over a week to lay the groundwork. Think about what you’ll tell your friends.”

Clark chuckled. “I’ve been sharing a crappy studio apartment with my best friend for most of the last year. It works, sort of, because both of us are almost never home. But no one will be surprised when I move out the second that I have another option.”

Bruce smiled. “Well then. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful—mutually beneficial business relationship.”

Clark laughed outright at that and held out his hand to shake on it. Bruce shook his head with a smile and stepped forward, putting himself squarely into Clark’s personal space. Cupping Clark’s chin with his index and thumb pressing hard into the sides of Clark’s jaw, Bruce kissed him.

It was clearly meant to be a goodbye kiss, Bruce brushing Clark’s lips with his own in a short, sweet caress. It didn’t stay short or sweet for long. Clark’s months of pining betrayed him again: he melted against Bruce at the first touch of their lips, and his mouth opened in a gasp and welcomed Bruce in.

Bruce lurched forward as Clark’s sudden weight shift pulled him off-balance, and he slapped his hands down flat on the desk, pinning Clark against the hard surface. Clark had always thought “knees gone weak” to be a charming literary convention, but as Bruce’s tongue thrust demandingly into his mouth, he had to brace both hands against the desk himself to stay upright. Bruce helped obligingly, bracing him up with an arm around his waist and a firm thigh thrust between his legs. Bruce’s other hand came around to cradle Clark’s head as he devoured his mouth and bent him lower, forcing him to arch his back. Clark shifted more of his weight onto the desk, standing on one tiptoe and grinding himself down on Bruce’s thigh, curling his other foot around to rest on the back of Bruce’s knee. Bruce yanked Clark’s head to the side with a growl and wrenched Clark’s tie down, loosening his collar to bite and suck at Clark’s neck. With the few brain cells he had still working, Clark thanked his lucky stars that he’d decided to wear the kryptonite ring even to this preliminary meeting.

“I was going to be good and let you go, dammit,” Bruce said in a harsh whisper, moving his other hand to stroke along Clark’s raised hip. “Wait to take you for the first time at my leisure, on a comfortable bed, after a nice dinner…” 

“Bruce, please—” Clark begged, trying to pull Bruce’s lips back to his, nearly mindless with lust.

“Fuck it.” Bruce hefted his hands under Clark’s thighs and lifted him up to sit fully on the desk. He undid Clark’s tie entirely and held it measuringly in his hands for a second. “I seem to remember you being very enthusiastic about bondage?”

“Oh god,” Clark whimpered.

“Lean back. Put your hands together behind you.”

Clark obeyed and Bruce leaned over him, resting most of his body weight against Clark’s for a glorious moment. Bruce rapidly tied his wrists—knotting the thick end of the tie around the right and then the left—and then looped and secured the thin end around the handle of his front desk drawer. Clark tugged hard a few times, making sure it wouldn’t pull free at an inopportune moment. He had just enough slack to lay his hands flat on the edge of the desk. Bruce raised his body off of Clark’s—who manfully refrained from whimpering again—and tugged Clark’s ass toward him, stretching Clark’s arms and putting a delicious tension on the bonds. Bruce kissed him again, exploring his mouth leisurely and teasingly this time. Lost in the interplay of lips and tongues and teeth, Clark didn’t notice that his shirt had been undone until Bruce’s clever fingers tweaked and twirled around his nipples, sending streaks of pleasure down his frame. He threw his head back, gasping.

“Christ, you’re so hot,” Bruce muttered, running his hands along Clark’s bulging pecs and well-defined abs. Then he pushed the unbuttoned shirt and jacket down to puddle around Clark’s bound wrists and lowered his mouth to nip and suck at Clark’s chest. Clark’s voice came out in pants and hisses, then rose to a muffled yell as Bruce bit down viciously on a nipple. Clark collapsed backward, his weight resting uncomfortably on his arms and bound hands, his legs spreading wide. “Oh god, Bruce… please…”

“Liked that, did you?” Bruce taunted.

“Hurts so good…”

“More?”

“Please…”

But Bruce pulled back instead of continuing the torment, and Clark’s voice made that whimpering sound again despite himself, before turning to an approving hum as Bruce undid Clark’s belt and pulled his pants down. He nuzzled at Clark’s boxer briefs for a moment with an open mouth, teasing him with hot breath, and Clark’s breath stopped completely.

“You smell so good,” Bruce purred.

“So do you,” Clark responded mindlessly. Bruce chuckled, then slipped down to pull off the rest of Clark’s clothing. With his brainpower rushing back in the seconds that Bruce wasn’t actively pleasuring him, Clark blushed furiously at his position—reclining, naked and bound, on an office desk while one of the most powerful men in the world, still fully clothed and scarcely rumpled, knelt before him.

He didn’t have much time to reflect, however, as Bruce rose back up, his hands alternatively caressing and afflicting Clark’s body as he reclaimed his mouth, swallowing up Clark’s cries. They made out for several long minutes, Clark’s arousal climbing in ever-increasing peaks and valleys, before Bruce leaned over Clark’s body again to grab something out of his desk’s side drawer.

“Hmmm?” Clark murmured blissfully.

“Well, I promised to hurt you a little more,” Bruce said in a husky voice. “And you make the most scrumptious sounds when I do…” He held up a hand holding two small black objects. It took Clark’s addled brain a second to recognize them as common office binder clips.

“Oh god…”

“You keep saying that, the old guy is going to come down and see what you want,” Bruce joked. “What’s your color?”

“What—oh. Green, green.”

“Good boy.”

Clark moaned shamelessly. Bruce lowered his mouth to Clark’s nipple again, circling it with his tongue and then lightly pulling with his teeth and sucking, raising it up to a small hard pucker.

“Tell me what you want,” Bruce ordered. “Beg me.”

“Oh g—Bruce,” Clark blurted, and Bruce snorted with unexpected laughter.

“No, keep going, that’s the right attitude,” he said when Clark paused in embarrassment, and ran his hand up between Clark’s legs in encouragement, stroking his pubes lightly.

“ _Please,_ Bruce, hurt me.” Clark almost stuttered in his rush to get the words out. “Torture me, break me, _please_! _”_

“Oh fuck,” Bruce swore approvingly. He pinched Clark’s nipple tight, then fastened the binder clip securely on the exposed nub of skin. Clark yelled out in pain, then broke off, looking ashamedly at the door.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Bruce said, moving his mouth over to Clark’s other nipple and speaking between bites and sucks. “I want—to hear you. Believe me—anyone close enough—has heard worse. I want to hear you _scream._ ” He grasped Clark’s nipple roughly between finger and thumb and snapped the second binder clip on.

“Oh god, Bruce, it hurts so bad!” Clark hissed, actual fucking tears coming to his eyes. He lolled his head back as fiery, shooting pains shot up from his chest, punching his arousal higher. Giddily, he thanked his lucky stars for kryptonite, without which he might never know pain—or pleasure—again.

Bruce slid back down to kneel between Clark’s legs, his hands stroking Clark’s ass and thighs, and then spread Clark wide and buried his face between Clark’s legs. Clark did scream then, and Bruce growled approvingly.

“That’s right, baby, make that sound again,” Bruce commanded, then bent his head back down, licking and sucking. Clark couldn’t tell any more what broken pleas and curses were pouring out his mouth. He was conscious only of the heat at his chest, no longer even registering as pain to his bewildered senses; the helplessness of his bound arms, forcing him to surrender his inhibitions and submit to the moment; and the rolling waves of wet pleasure coming up from his groin as Bruce continued his oral assault. His climax burst over him in multicolored sparks of light, and he shouted out exultantly before falling into a long, warm, dark languor as repeated percussive shocks shot through his body.

He was barely conscious of the sharp twinges of pain as Bruce tweaked off the binder clips. Bruce hopped up on the desk and cradled the two of them together, chest to chest, while he slowly worked loose the binds that Clark had pulled taut in his urgency. Clark continued to jolt periodically with reaction tremors and Bruce stroked him soothingly, petting him slowly from neck to knees. Once his hands were released, Clark let his shirt and jacket fall the rest of the way off his wrists and nestled into Bruce’s warmth, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s torso. Bruce let him snuggle for a few minutes, then hoisted him easily into a bridal carry so he could slide them both off the desk. Clark marveled anew at the man’s strength even as he weakly slung his hands around Bruce’s neck and shoulders to help distribute his weight—he might be slightly shorter and leaner than Bruce’s bruiser frame, but he was _not_ a small person, and his muscles were no less heavy for being granted by gift of yellow sun rather than dint of hard effort.

Bruce laid Clark down on the large leather couch nearby and draped himself on top, setting up a slow grind, humping Clark’s limp, utterly relaxed body and groping his hips and ass, nipping and sucking again at Clark’s neck and jaw, lifting up his head occasionally to catch Clark’s nerveless lips. Clark slowly began to respond again as his oversensitivity eased and his ardor rose anew.

“You feeling good, baby?” Bruce asked huskily.

“So good…” Clark breathed out as he lifted his arms to caress this beautiful man.

“You think…” Bruce continued. “You might be ready to help me feel that good too, sweetheart?”

Clark lifted his head, realizing for the first time just how cranked Bruce was. He’d undone his pants at some point and pushed down his boxers, and his dick jutted out obscenely above the black silk and wool, so hard it was nearly vertical, purple with pulsing veins against the white of his dress shirt, dripping at the end.

“Is dat all fer me?” Clark asked wonderingly, the relaxed Plains accent of his childhood coming to the fore as he reached down a hand to stroke. “Ya gonna put it in me, give it to me good?”

Bruce groaned, pressing his forehead to Clark’s shoulder. “Nuh-uh. When I fuck you for the first time, you’ll be tied down on a big, wide bed, after I’ve already come once and am ready to tease and torture you for _hours,_ until you’re stretched wide open, leaking and begging me to take you.” He started thrusting harder against Clark’s hip and hand at that, seemingly content to grind his way to a finish.

“Oh shit, yes,” Clark moaned, pulling him in for another kiss. A moment later, though, he pushed Bruce back, repressing his own rising arousal to focus on the bigger prize. He refused to let Bruce’s first orgasm with him be an awkward grind on an office couch. “Then please, use my mouth? Least I can do after you made me scream like that.”

Bruce grunted his approval and lifted his body, holding himself up with his arms so Clark could scramble out from under him—but Clark had other ideas and slid down the length of the couch instead, pillowing his head against the cushion and grasping Bruce’s hips with both hands, pulling him in. Bruce caught on quickly, bracing one hand against the couch arm and burying the other in Clark’s hair, taking a firm grasp as he pushed his cock past Clark’s unresisting lips.

The angle was difficult with Clark flat on his back, but he stretched out his neck and flattened his tongue and forced his gag reflex down, urging Bruce with hands and mouth to fuck his face. Bruce started slow, feeling his way and letting Clark get used to his length. Clark enjoyed the feeling of being trapped between the smooth leather and Bruce’s soft skin, Bruce’s musk surrounding him, Bruce’s hand pulling sharply at his curls, Bruce’s hot and rigid penis thrusting into his mouth—gently at first, and then with rising force, nudging into his throat and blocking off his air. He breathed in through his nose in short, strained gasps and gripped Bruce’s ass, stroking up and down the crack. After riding out a few more hard thrusts, his arousal peaked and he reached a hand down to stroke between his own legs, finding himself erect and dripping. Bruce didn’t last much longer, hammering the back of Clark’s mouth with his last few urgent thrusts before coming in a long stream of hot seed straight down his throat. Clark swallowed compulsively and rubbed himself frantically, sparking off his second orgasm. It was less intense than the first, but the sweeter for it, and he cried out and shook helplessly with aftershocks as Bruce collapsed on top of him.

“Jesus… fucking… Christ…” Bruce grunted after a minute, sliding his weight off of Clark and pulling him back up the length of the couch, half-rolling him so that they were lying spooned, Bruce’s left arm curled under Clark’s body and holding his torso firmly against his own to keep them from falling off. Clark helped by twining their legs together and clasping Bruce’s hand against his abs. They laid together in quiet, content communion for several long minutes. Clark savored their closeness, incredulously happy to be cuddling with his teammate after so many months—years, really, since they’d first encountered each other—of being pushed away. Eventually, however, his sweaty skin started itching and his muscles began protesting the effort necessary to keep his weight firmly on the too-slim surface instead of sliding off.

“This is… a big couch,” Clark murmured quietly, twisting a bit in Bruce’s tight grip. “Not big enough, though.”

“Extra large. Still too small for two grown-ass men,” Bruce snorted. He relaxed his left arm, letting Clark slip free, and slapped Clark’s bottom with his right. “Time to get up. Fortunately, my admin has been slightly traumatized during past experiences and won’t interrupt me now for anything less than an apocalypse—not that those are all that rare around Gotham, unfortunately. But anyway, I bet she’s out there chomping at the bit and holding off my afternoon appointments with sheer force of will.” Belying his words, he made no effort to get up as Clark rose, instead lying back on the couch, closing his eyes, and clasping his hands behind his head. Clark savored the look of him, happy and relaxed for once; he made a pretty picture, all rumpled clothes and sated skin, biceps bulging as he supported his relaxed neck, soft penis still peeking out above his wide-open pants. Sighing a little—Clark wanted nothing more than to go back and curl up next to him, but it simply wasn’t going to happen—he gathered up his crumpled clothes from where they’d fallen to either side of the desk and started working them back on.

“Left-hand door is a private bathroom,” Bruce noted, finally tucking himself in and grabbing an iPad from the end table next to the couch.

Clark found the designated door and ducked in to check the mirror and clean himself up as best he could. He admired the red welts blooming on his neck and chest before doing up his collar and tie, wishing he had the leisure and ability to keep them as reminders while they darkened and then faded naturally. Returning to the main office, he grabbed his copies of the NDA and contract from where they’d remained, miraculously undamaged, on the side of the desk and then walked back to the couch, leaning down and giving Bruce a messy, passionate kiss, which he returned enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” Clark said. “That was… wow.”

Bruce chuckled. “I think wow goes for me, too. I’m eagerly anticipating the next few months with you. Promises to be quite a ride.”

Clark forced a laugh, though he could have done without the reminder of the temporary nature of their relationship.

“I’ll be waiting for your text with bated breath,” he said lightly, and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acts include extensive necking/petting, biting, bondage, nipple torture, unprotected oral sex, face-fucking. Check-ins/safe words are shown. Negotiation of specific acts is not always shown on screen but is implied.
> 
> [Back to top](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701693/chapters/57588712#main)


	9. First Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, you thirsty readers, no actual sex in this chapter. Hopefully the boys can still keep you entertained...

Clark lived the next few days floating on a cloud. Less than twelve hours after their memorable interview, he got a text from Bruce with information for _two_ dates: just the two of them on Friday night at the newest trendy restaurant in Metropolis; and then the following Tuesday they’d be going to Gotham’s red carpet premiere of the new Gray Ghost film, which Clark had been looking forward to seeing for months. Bruce also sent information for a tailor on Topaz Lane where Clark was to go and get outfitted for his new role as arm candy.

He fully expected not to hear anything else from Bruce until they next met, and he was fine with that, he told himself—he was basically an employee, after all, not a friend. Thus, he was pleasantly surprised when he got another text on Wednesday.

 _Entertain me,_ Bruce messaged.

 _???,_ he texted back. _I’m at work!_

 _Not like that._ Bruce responded. _Unless you’re feeling particularly inspired ;)_

Clark grinned.

 _And you don’t mind if everyone in America sees it,_ Bruce’s next message read. _My cell’s been hacked before. I’ve got decent security on it, but nothing’s foolproof. Never text anything you would hate to see in print._ Clark sighed, but nodded at the reminder.

_Got it. So how did you want me to entertain you?_

_I’m in an incredibly boring meeting. Tell me something funny._

_My friend Jimmy is plotting your demise,_ Clark wrote back after a second’s pondering on what Bruce might enjoy hearing about.

_Do I need to warn my security?_

_Only if you’re seriously worried about this guy,_ Clark responded, and sent his favorite picture of Jimmy from last year’s comic con. They’d been dressed as Captain America and Falcon, but Jimmy’s wings had gotten caught in a passing Brony’s cosplay, and the picture showed them laughably trying to extricate themselves.

 _:D_ Bruce texted. _So why does he want me dead?_

 _We have tickets for the regular Gray Ghost release next week. He’s pissed we won’t both be unspoiled._ Clark sent a selfie he’d taken recently while trying on his nearly finished cosplay—since it was Jimmy’s turn to play the hero, Clark had decided to go as the Electric Man, one of the best Gray Ghost villains. The fact that the Electric Man’s costume was a skin-tight onesie covered in lightning bolts had _nothing_ to do with his choice, of course.

 _*drool*_ Bruce wrote back. _You look great in that._

_Thanks :)_

_Do you play dress up a lot? ;) I might have a few suggestions for costumes._

_It’s called cosplay, thank you. And yeah, a couple times a year, for movie releases and comic con._

_You go to comic cons?_

_Sure. They’re a lot of fun. They’re not just about comic books anymore, you know, they’ve got famous authors and actors, there’s a lot of great art and panels._

_Simmer down, boy, no judgment here,_ Bruce reproved. _I was actually just thinking it might be fun. I could get something with a face mask, wander around without anyone paying attention to me. Dick would probably have fun._

 _I would love to take you! Gotham actually has a decent one coming up next month._ Clark quickly sent Bruce a link to the event’s homepage, then winced. He knew Bruce probably wouldn’t want him to meet his son, or adopted ward, whatever.

 _Awesome,_ Bruce responded. _I’ll try to keep at least one day that weekend open._

Clark did _not_ bounce in his chair, but Lois glanced up from her adjoining desk and laughed at him anyway.

 _Meeting’s wrapping up, got to go,_ Bruce wrote. _Thanks for the distraction._

 _Anytime,_ Clark responded, then resolutely put his phone away and turned back to work.

* * *

Friday was a bright and sunny day, matching Clark’s spirits. He and Lois took the crosstown subway from Planet Square to the southeast corner of Centennial Park, then jogged along the loop path up to her apartment on the Upper West Side.

“You know how when people admire this place and ask how you could afford it?” Clark asked as they walked in the door. “And you always laugh and say ‘thanks, daddy’?”

“Sure…” Lois answered, apprehensively.

“I have new questions about that, now.” Clark laughed. Lois blushed furiously.

“Selina or Bruce?” she asked.

“Selina,” he responded. “She gave me a lecture about not telling even my closest friends, and, well, I put two and two together.”

Lois sighed. “My dad cut me off after I quit ROTC and changed my major to journalism. We didn’t reconcile until _after_ I started at the _Planet._ What with graduating right after the Great Recession hit—being with Bruce kept me writing when nobody was hiring new journalists. I just let everybody believe that my dad was still paying the bills. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she added. “But I take my promises seriously.”

“I know,” Clark said warmly. “I love you. And thank you. I got the mortgage payoff confirmation this morning.”

“Oh Clark, that’s great,” Lois turned and hugged him. “Now get your ass in the shower. You need to look irresistible tonight, so everyone envies Bruce for having you on his arm!” Clark laughed and obeyed. After a long shower, he pulled on one of his new suits and reported to Lois for help with the final touches. The tailor hadn’t let him look at any prices during his fitting, saying only that “Mr. Wayne left specific instructions,” but he’d looked up the tags after the first suit was delivered, and it was literally the most expensive thing he’d ever owned, including the motorcycle he’d had in college.

“Alright, you’re done,” Lois said finally, finishing her administrations on his hair and letting him stand up from her bed and turn toward the full-length mirror hanging on her closet door.

A stranger stared back at him. He’d never particularly _tried_ to look bad as Clark Kent—he preferred not attracting too much attention to himself, but there was no real need for a disguise, since the Kryptonian distortion tech worked into his costume made Superman look and sound like a different person. However, he’d always felt more comfortable and surer of himself on the casual spectrum of masculine-presenting attire; mostly plaid shirts and jeans like those worn by his father, professors, and the other people that he’d admired as a youth. Metropolis State University was an agrarian-focused school in many ways, so he’d never worn a full suit regularly until he started at the _Daily Planet_ , and then he’d gravitated, again, toward the kind of suits he’d seen his role models wearing—grays and browns mostly, complete with elbow patches and plentiful pockets. Since he’d always bought off the rack—and the lower end of the rack at that—his suits were usually tight in some places, baggy in others, and often a little short for him. This wool and silk navy pinstripe brought out his bright blue eyes and made his brown hair look darker, while the tailored windowpane cut clung to his lanky frame. Lois had used hair gel to make his curly hair look stylishly disheveled instead of messy. He looked older, taller, _confident_. Arm candy, indeed.

“Mine eyes!” Lois cried out, throwing her hand dramatically over her face and collapsing backward onto the bed as he stared at himself with slack jaw. “Blinded, forsooth! I have beheld a glory no mortals were ever meant to see!” He laughed and threw a pillow at her.

He took a taxi down to Triabla, the trendy neighborhood in lower Metropolis just north of Larson Boulevard. Like many of the trendier places in town, the restaurant Bruce had picked didn’t look like much from the outside—in Metropolis, you got to be popular by pretending you didn’t care about such plebian concerns. Inside, the place was cozy, made of up many darkly lit alcoves divided by stone archways, given an illusion of privacy. However, he’d seen at least two different paparazzi lingering outside before he went in and gave the host Bruce’s name, and knew that his name and picture would be up on the gossip sites by morning. Which was the point, of course, he reminded himself.

But the minute he saw Bruce, all awareness of the ulterior purposes of this meeting fled from him mind. Bruce was in black—of course—with a light peach shirt and no tie, a day’s stubble making him look deliciously rakish.

“Clark,” Bruce murmured approvingly, standing and pulling him in. “Thank you for joining me.” Clark theatrically grumbled a bit when Bruce dodged his lips and kissed him on the cheek instead, and Bruce laughed.

“Be good,” he reproved. “This restaurant has an excellent chef, and I’d like to actually eat some food before you get me too distracted. Again.”

Clark laughed and slid into his seat. They’d been placed on two adjacent sides of a corner two-top table, on an upholstered bench that ran across all three sides of a small alcove. There were a few other tables spaced out along the rest of the bench and in the middle of the area, but they were all empty even of dishware, with only a single iron-wrought candle holder on each, casting flickering flames across the granite surfaces. The only other light came from shielded torch sconces spaced around the walls. Clark raised an eyebrow, looking around at the empty space.

“Granted, people are supposed to see us,” Bruce answered the unspoken question. “But I prefer not to have anyone actually eavesdropping on my conversations when I can avoid it. Besides, a ‘private’ dinner in such a public place will actually raise more gossip.”

“Fair enough,” Clark said. “I put myself in your hands. My ma always taught me never to argue with an expert.” 

Bruce smiled. “In that case, any dietary restrictions or preferences I should be aware of?”

“Nah, I ate chicken-fried squirrel once, I’ll try anything,” Clark responded.

“Excellent,” Bruce said. “And I’ve got to hear that story…”

“It was actually kinda traumatic! It started when I first read Robin Hood…”

That headed off a long string of anecdotes about Clark’s childhood and life growing up in the country. He wasn’t normally a garrulous man, but by the time the first plates of food arrived—he’d not even noticed Bruce giving any orders, perhaps he’d laid them in beforehand?—he found that Bruce had, with just the occasional question or teasing remark, managed to keep him talking for fifteen straight minutes. Their server had apparently been and gone with drinks, since he had an old-fashioned sitting untouched in front of him, while Bruce was sipping a scotch on the rocks.

“Golly, Bruce, I’m sorry,” he apologized. Bruce choked on his drink. “I didn’t mean to keep talking so much!”

“You did _not_ just say ‘golly,’” Bruce laughed. “My god, I don’t believe you exist!”

“What do you mean?” Clark asked, taking a bite of food. “Oh wow. What is this? It’s amazing.”

“Fried goat cheese with wild lavender honey,” Bruce answered. “Here, try some of the empanadas, too. This is a tapas place; each plate will be just a few bites of food, we’re supposed to eat them together.”

Clark took a bite of the spiced pork pastry from Bruce’s fork and hummed in delight, closing his eyes. He reopened them to see Bruce’s eyes, pupils wide and black, fixed upon him. He blushed.

“And that’s what I mean,” Bruce answered, running a hand up his leg. “You’re too good, too nice, smart, sexy to be real…” Clark inhaled sharply as Bruce’s hand inched up higher and curved around his inner thigh. “You uncover political scandals and write articles about how superheroes will change society, you blog about sex ed and civil rights protests, and you show up looking like _that…”_ Bruce shook his head, drawing his hand back, and Clark bit back a protest. “And then I find out you’re an all-American farm boy, and you say things like golly and jeepers, you have a nice thing to say about every person in that tiny little bucolic town you grew up in, at least half of whom _must_ been bigots and dullards…”

“Smallville is a good town, with good people,” Clark protested, stung.

“And you’re telling me you never got harassed there?” Bruce asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well,” Clark admitted.

“Ha!”

“Okay, so… yes, of course I did, are you kidding? Even before I actually came out … kids can always tell when someone is different. And I was the only Jewish kid in town, too, even though we aren’t very religious. I was always set apart. And yeah, sometimes the other kids were cruel. Their parents, too, though at least it was mostly my parents who saw that part.”

“And yet you’re doing all this so you can retire there one day?”

“Oh yeah,” Clark joked. “This is a real trial for me. Cocktails, amazing food, great sex… Clearly not worth going through all this torture for such a pitiful reward.” Bruce smirked. “But seriously, I want the farm as a retreat, a safe haven—I don’t know if I’d ever actually live there again.

“But, here’s the thing. Because I was always set apart a bit during my childhood… I learned to watch—and read—people. And I found that some of those same people who treated me like I had a contagious disease were the ones who came around digging out old ladies’ drives in the winter and making sure everyone had enough to eat…” he shook his head, struggling to articulate his worldview. “And once they’d lived with me a few years, once the other kids had played football with me and acted in plays… the whole town _changed_. They were jerks to me out of fear, and once they learned to overcome that fear, they embraced me.

“Now don’t get me wrong, there are some people who are just assholes, through and through. If I don’t spend my days punching Nazis, it’s not from any charity on my part.” Bruce guffawed. “But most people are just… people. Capable of both amazing kindness and heartbreaking cruelty. And so, I could believe that all people are horrible little weasels just waiting for an opportunity to stab their fellows in the back, and I’d try to kill myself or commit genocide out of despair. Or I can choose to believe that all people just need the right opportunity; the right support and lessons and circumstances to learn to be kind. And so that’s what I do, so that I can keep getting through the day.” 

Clark finished his unexpectedly passionate speech a little winded and took a hasty sip of his drink to cover. Bruce was leaning back quietly, nursing his own drink, his eyes hooded.

“I envy you your certitude,” he said. “I’ve never had that kind of moral judgement, where I could be sure I was doing the right thing.”

Clark’s eyes widened in surprise. “I find that hard to believe. I mean, I may not agree with every choice you’ve ever made, but you’ve done a lot of good.”

“In spite of myself, I assure you,” Bruce answered. “I spent years looking for some kind of guru, a teacher, only to find frauds and crooks.” He shook his head. “I think I’ve found a good path, finally… but every solid value I’ve come to hold was built on a foundation of errors, either mine or others. And even now, I look at some of the things I do, the choices I’ve made, and I have no idea if I’m doing the right thing, even when I can’t see anything else I could have done.”

“I think you’re too hard on yourself,” Clark said, slipping his hand hesitantly onto Bruce’s arm. Bruce smiled and moved his hand up to entwine their fingers. “We all make mistakes—who’s to say that you’re not better off for having learned to really think through every decision, compared to me going by instinct?”

“Well,” Bruce responded, but cut off as the waiters brought out the next course, along with glasses of white wine to replace their opening cocktails. And by the time they had sipped and tasted the new offerings, they had moved on to other topics, and Bruce never ended up getting back to what he been about to say.

As the server brought out dessert, Clark felt replete with good food and drink, witty and insightful conversation, and Bruce’s continued admiring looks and occasional caresses. He’d lost any lingering shyness he’d still retained at the beginning of the evening and was eagerly awaiting their presumed trip together back to Gotham, where he looked forward to Bruce making good on his promises from their interlude in his office.

“So,” Bruce said, chasing a bit of chocolate cake around its dish of banana chai ice cream and rum sauce, “we should debrief from the other day—what you liked, didn’t like, did I push you too hard…”

“Definitely not,” Clark interrupted, a little louder than he’d intended, and Bruce laughed.

“Seriously,” Clark continued, a little less vehemently, “that was… that was amazing. There wasn’t anything I didn’t like.”

Bruce chuckled. “Well, that’s great to hear—and likewise—but doesn’t help me much in planning future scenes…”

Clark shrugged, quirking his mouth in a helpless, one-sided smile. “Well, that sounds like a you problem,” he said jokingly.

“Cheeky,” Bruce said, slapping him upside the head. They both laughed. “How about this,” Bruce continued, recapturing Clark’s hand and cradling it between his own. “Tell me the three things you liked the best, and three things you didn’t like—or didn’t get enough of,” he amended, as Clark began to protest. “And you get a kiss for every item.”

Clark hummed thoughtfully. “Okay… I really liked being tied up. Bondage is—it’s always made me feel safe, free, open. I’ve never been able to duplicate that with anything else.” Bruce nodded, turned Clark’s hand over, and slowly kissed his palm, soft lips with just a hint of teeth at the end. Clark groaned and had to take a second to continue.

“And, uh, being manhandled was great. I’ve never had a lover who could just pick me so easily.” Clark enthused. Bruce raised Clark’s hand to his mouth. Slowly and deliberately, he sucked the tip of Clark’s finger into his mouth. Clark shivered, a pang of arousal shooting straight up his arm and then down to his groin. “I can’t believe you’re strong enough to carry me like that,” he added mendaciously, just to see what Bruce would say.

Bruce smiled. “Comes from not having a real job,” he said. “Lots of time to work out.”

“Apparently,” Clark said archly.

“Okay, last thing you liked,” Bruce urged.

“Going down on you at the end,” Clark said after a moment of thought. “You paced it perfectly, and I really got off on being used like that.” Bruce smiled and mouthed along Clark’s pulse point, then bit down, and Clark inhaled sharply.

“Okay, and now the hard part, so rewards get better,” Bruce said, and scooted closer to Clark on the bench, knocking the table a bit farther into the center of the alcove.

Clark’s heart rate picked up as he breathed in Bruce’s scent. “Um… more skin-to-skin contact would have been nice,” he said dizzily. “I barely got to touch you.”

Bruce pulled Clark’s head to him, cradling his skull. He kissed him, slow and gentle. Clark would have melted into him again, parting his lips, but Bruce took a firm grasp of his curls with both hands and yanked him back, out of reach. “Go on, two more.”

Clark grumbled again in protest, but Bruce just chuckled evilly. “Okay… um…. I would have liked to feel your full weight on me more; you don’t have to hold yourself up.” He leaned forward eagerly for his reward, pulling his hair against Bruce’s grip with all his current (mortal, thanks to the ring) strength. Bruce shook his head a little, chuckling, but then gave him what he wanted, slipping his tongue between Clark’s lips. He tasted like chocolate and expensive alcohol and _Bruce._ Clark groaned contentedly into the kiss, but Bruce pulled him back again all too soon, using his strength to hold Clark away from him, pinned against the padded seat.

Just then, Clark’s league communicator buzzed from its implantation spot just under his ear, and he cursed inwardly. Of all the inconvenient timing…

“One more,” Bruce was ordering huskily.

Clark took a deep breath. He’d have to finish this conversation quickly, then find an excuse to get away for a second. “I could have taken more pain,” he said. “I mean, it wouldn’t have been a good idea for you to play any harder than that for our first time, but for the future…”

Bruce growled deep in his throat and released Clark’s head, wrapping his arms around Clark’s waist instead and drawing him close. They kissed for a long moment, Bruce leaning over and almost crawling onto Clark. Clark had almost gotten entirely distracted when his comm buzzed again.

He sighed, pulling back. “I need to run to the bathroom,” he said apologetically.

“Right,” Bruce said, breathing hard. “I’ll get the check and we can get out of here.” Clark cursed to himself again as he made his way to the restroom, which was thankfully empty.

“What is it?” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, Superman,” Wonder Woman responded. “I know you posted yourself emergency-only tonight, but we’ve got an alien incursion in Coast City. The Green Lantern called for backup, and you can get to him the fastest.”

Clark closed his eyes with resignation. He’d really hoped to get through at least _one_ date with Bruce without having to flake out. “I’ll be there in five, Di.”

“Thank you, Kal.”

He used the facilities, washed his hands, and walked back out to make his excuses to Bruce. However, when he reached their table, he found Bruce standing, the signed check was already on the table, a few hundred-dollar-bills sitting across it for tip.

“I’m so sorry, Clark,” Bruce said before Clark could open his mouth. “Seriously, I’m… very frustrated… but an emergency has come up back at the office—international business, you know, there’s no nine to five anymore, and a lot of the overseas folk take insult unless I confirm things personally. I’ll have to take a rain check on the rest of our evening.”

Clark gave an internal sigh of relief, closing his eyes for a second. Diana must have called Bruce, as well, to provide a second wave of support in case Clark and the Green Lantern weren’t able to handle the threat themselves, or to help with cleanup if they were.

“Of course, no worries; I understand,” he said aloud. “I’ll see you on Tuesday.” The two men walked together out of the restaurant, where Bruce had a car waiting on the curb.

“I can drop you at the subway…” Bruce offered.

“No, no.” Clark responded quickly. “Thanks, but I think I’ll take a walk around here before heading back home. Cool my blood.”

Bruce pulled him close and kissed him lingeringly and deep; Clark melted against him, letting Bruce turn him around and push him up against the cold metal of the car. He relished the feel of being trapped between two unyielding surfaces.

“Dammit,” Bruce swore as he pulled away. “I’m going to kill my coworker who created this screwup.” Clark barely kept himself from breaking out in laughter, but instead gave a sober farewell as Bruce ducked into the car and pulled away. Then Clark took off his ring, placing it carefully in its box, and jogged around to the back of the building, checking to make sure the coast was clear. Using super speed, he shed his clothes, pulled the El sigil that stored his suit out of his wallet, and slapped it on his chest. As his suit grew out from the shield to cover his body, he gathered up his clothes, stowed them away in the carefully concealed pocket in his cape, and flew off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is wondering how much of that speech was me—I'm actually *much* less compassionate toward conservatives than Clark. But this is the kind of philosophy I feel like he would need to have to survive as an openly queer journalist and still enjoy time in small-town America.


	10. I Can’t Actually Write Action Scenes, Okay?

Growing up on a farm, Clark had never had a problem with spiders. In fact, he rather liked them. However, he had never had to deal with bright neon spiders the size of Volkswagen bugs. They didn’t even have the decency to come in only one color; although each spider was a solid block of eye-straining color, they varied from warm tones of fuschia, pink, and orange, through various shades of yellow, to a few that were cooler shades of green and blue.

He and the Green Lantern hovered back-to-back in mid-air in front of Coastal City’s bay, trying to keep the damn things in the shallows and beaches and away from the people of the city, but more just kept pouring out of the three spaceships that had landed just off the coast.

“There’s some more coming around the pier!” the Lantern shouted. Clark shot out with his laser vision, taking out one of the pier supports and knocking the spiders back into the ocean.

They’d managed to avoid killing any of them so far—the Lantern said they were sentient—but Clark wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep that up. To make matters worse, the sun was just barely over the horizon and sinking fast—Clark could see fine in the darkness, but he wasn’t sure how well the Lantern and other members of the Justice League would do.

“So, what do you know about these guys?” Clark yelled.

“Not a whole lot,” the Lantern shouted back. “Named something unpronounceable without the Ring’s help, I call ‘em the Sneeze cause that’s about what it sounds like. Basic kinda insect species, one queen per ship, they each rule their own workers and drones, and make collaborative decisions with other queens.” He created a Ring construct resembling a giant green broom and swept back a few that were attempting to come up one of the other piers. “I ran into them while doing cleanup on an interstellar war on the other side of the sector. They said they were refugees who’d been driven away from their home; I gave them a standard Lantern resettlement offer.”

“They turned it down?” Clark burned down another one of the pier supports, sending the entire wooden structure crashing down into the sea. The acrid stench of smoke was stared to hang in the air over the coast. He hated to destroy infrastructure that people would have to rebuild, but better that than lose lives.

“No! They were grateful, I guided them to an empty planet several light years from here and headed home.” The Lantern began using his ring to make barriers out of sand, collapsing each one when the Sneeze tried to climb over. They would fall back, covered in the sand, only to shake it off in anger and try to climb back up the next.

“They followed you?” 

“I didn’t see ‘em, but they must have, because the next thing I know, they’re landing in the damn ocean! I went in to talk, tried to politely explain that Earth isn’t going to be a good fit for them, next thing I know they’re attacking me. No idea why.”

“Right.” Clark said. “Hopefully a translation error from the Ring; still a chance we can get out of this peacefully.” His next words were directed into the comms. “Wonder Woman, you and the rest of the team following this?”

“Yes, Kal. The Flash is approaching your location now, the Manhunter, Cyborg, and I are just a few minutes out, and Aquaman and Batman will be there within twenty minutes.”

“Lantern, you and I will have a _chat_ when this is over about bringing League business back to Earth through your carelessness.” Batman’s growly voice came in over the comms. Out of the corner of his eye, Clark saw the Lantern’s head snap back, his body tensing, and grinned. He occasionally tried to defend the cheerful, snarky hero from their cantankerous teammate’s ire—he knew it was hard to balance the League and Earth’s concerns with the Lantern’s literally galactic-sized responsibilities—but Clark felt absolutely no inclination to do so in this instance, given what—well, who—he _could_ have been doing right now rather than fighting giant spiders.

“I agree that it sounds like there might have been a translation problem,” Batman continued. “But we’ll need to talk to the queens to make sure, and to do that we’ll have to get through the drones. Aquaman, hold yourself in reserve and scope out the ships from under the ocean. Flash, do reconnaissance above the surface. Figure out if there are any nasty surprises waiting for us and find us a way into one of those ships. Once I arrive, Superman and I will go inside. Wonder Woman, Cyborg, and the Martian Manhunter will support the Lantern and let Superman retreat to join me—Manhunter, make yourself look like Superman so they don’t suspect our movements. All agreed?”

The rest of the team made varying sounds of assent.

The battle continued. Things proceeded much as Batman had projected; fortunately, once the designated heroes joined the Lantern in the sky, they were able to keep the Sneeze confined fairly easily.

Clark fidgeted a little in anxiety as he fell back to join his other teammates. Before he’d started this, he’d been certain that—based on his experience with Lois—he would have no problem working with someone he was dating. Only now, of course, did all the potential problems spring to mind. He’d never had to watch Lois go into a dangerous situation without him… nor had he ever needed to pretend that he didn’t care for her. What if he let something slip? What if he couldn’t treat Batman in the same way Superman always had?

But his worries were unfounded. When he joined Batman, standing next to Aquaman and the Flash on the beach down the coast from where the ships had landed, his well-oiled coping mechanism of compartmentalizing his dual lives clicked on. He didn’t see the man who had bound him up and hurt him and made him scream in pleasure and with whom he had been laughing and flirting not an hour prior. He saw only his trusted, if infuriating, teammate.

“There’s no way through on the surface without super speed, but it’s easy to get through with it,” the Flash reported. “There are a bunch of passages open in the spaceships, but there’s a complication—you’ll have to see it.”

“I can take you both through the ocean, no problem,” Aquaman said. “They’re not guarding against an attack from that direction.” Batman grimaced.

“Through the water is better than me carrying you with super speed,” Clark pointed out.

“Yes, but it’ll take me days to get the smell of brine out of the suit,” Batman grumbled. “Alright, _fine_. Let’s go.”

Aquaman created a bubble of air around their heads as he quickly conveyed the four of them through the sea to the ocean-side wall of the closest spaceship. As the Flash had said, there were many portals open along the curve of the Sneeze's vessel; it appeared that the spiders were semi-aquatic. Fortunately, it seemed like all the drones who were going to leave the ships had done so, because none of the openings were currently in use. They congregated next to the closest, Aquaman expanding his bubble of air so they could stand on the edge of the round entry point, water streaming off of them. Batman made a disgusted sound and shook himself like a dog.

“So, here’s the complication,” Flash said, indicating the thirty-foot wide, hexagonal opening. They peered in. The metal of the spaceship extended a couple feet into the vessel like a lip, then stopped. The interior pressure of the ship or something else must have kept the water out, as nothing past the lip was wet. The rest of the interior that they could see, a long passageway with various other openings branching off it, was made out of something like spider silk, looking white and silver, opalescent and, above, all, sticky.

“I tried to go in at some of the openings above the water,” the Flash reported. “It wasn’t sticky enough to hold me when I used the speed, but the second I touched it, a bunch of the drones came running; some kind of vibration on it warns them, I’d guess.”

“The webbing is only on the edges, the ‘walls’ of the corridors,” Clark pointed out. “I could just fly down the middle.”

“You’re not going in alone,” Batman insisted.

“I could carry you.”

Batman sighed. “Right.”

“Do you want to do piggyback, or…” Clark asked awkwardly.

“Set yourself up how you’d want to go in,” Batman ordered. Clark nodded and levitated into his usual horizontal flying position: floating steadily about three feet off the ground, cape streaming along his back, head held up, and arms extended in front of him.

Batman looked back at their teammates. “You ever mention this to _anyone_ , and I will bring you pain,” he threatened. “Stay here and guard our exit. We’ll call if we need backup." He sat down gingerly on Clark’s back like Superman was a chair, then swiveled to bring his legs up and crossed them in a classic lotus, gathering up fistfuls of Clark’s cape on either side for balance. The Flash choked off a wheeze of laughter.

“Let’s go,” Batman ordered shortly. Clark grinned and began floating slowly through the webbed corridor. As they moved out of normal human earshot, Clark heard the Flash singing softly as he held position behind them.

“I can show you the world…”

Batman and Superman explored the spaceship, going down corridor after corridor, trying to get closer to the center, where they figured the most important and sensitive areas would be. Fortunately, it appeared that the queen had sent almost all her drones out to join the battle, and/or was keeping her remaining drones near her, as the passageways were empty. It was a surreal experience—the shimmery white spiderwebs covered every surface, interwoven so densely that it wasn’t clear whether there was any other foundation underneath them. The top layer of thin fibrous strands vibrated ever so slightly as the air moved in the wake of the two heroes’ passage. From the distance, Clark could hear a slight echo of insectoid screeches and chirps, which he tried to home in on.

“So. You can speak to them better than the Lantern, right?” Batman asked tersely.

“Hopefully,” Clark replied. “The Lantern relies on the Ring’s tech to translate into the bearer’s native tongue, whereas I can just learn to speak a new language super quickly. That means that when it works, the Ring is faster and more comprehensive than me, but when it’s glitchy…”

“Got it. Let’s hope for the best.”

As they continued deeper into the ship, they began encountering the occasional singular Sneeze. Fortunately, while the spiders each had multiple eyes, they appeared to be fairly nearsighted and oriented toward the front, so Clark was able to duck behind and out of their way and avoid notice each time, although his quick moments rocked Batman a bit on his back. After the third encounter, Clark sighed.

“You should probably wrap your legs around me. It’ll be a more stable position if I have to move even faster.”

Batman made a barely perceptible unhappy noise in his throat. “I don’t want to treat you like a horse,” he said.

“But a flying carpet is better?” Clark asked archly. “Really, B, I don’t mind. It’s the best choice, tactically.”

That got through to Batman, as he knew it would, and he shifted, wrapping his legs around Clark’s waist, digging his heels into Clark’s hips, planting his fists right where the cape met the suit on the back of Clark’s shoulders, and gripping Clark’s sides between his thighs. Clark took a deep breath, pushing down his inevitable physical response. Compartmentalization was one thing, but he’d been attracted to Batman long before he’d fooled around with Bruce…

Moments later, those thoughts fled as they encountered a group of the drones for the first time, and Clark did have to torque quickly in midair and down a side passage, using just a bit of superspeed, to avoid them. Bruce clenched his sides more tightly and lowered his chest to hug Clark’s back.

“That passageway behind them,” he whispered urgently. “It looked like it let out on a larger area.”

“Right,” Clark agreed. “Hold on.”

He flew back, around and between, and past the spiders, evading their outstretched limbs, and found himself in a huge spherical space, probably about a football field in diameter. A webbed ball about the size of Clark and Jimmy’s apartment hung in the center, connected to the sides of the chamber with long ropes of webbing. A huge multicolored spider, maybe half-again the size of the drones, sat in state on top of it, while several dozen drones flitted around the room, presumably carrying out orders. As Batman and Superman entered, every eye in the room turned toward them, and the air filled with chitters and squeals.

“Well? What are they saying?” Batman whispered.

“Give me a minute… it’s a complicated language… tonal… crap, there’s some scent marking and gestures wrapped up in it, too. I bet that’s what the Ring got wrong.”

“Great.”

The sounds escalated as they spoke, and Clark winced, his mind working frantically to decipher the new language.

Coming to a realization, he moved slowly, carefully moving a hand back to tap on Batman’s knee.

 _They are angry confused,_ he tapped rapidly, using Morse code as quickly as he thought Batman could follow. _Think we are one being and our talk is to them, not each other. Scent is for mood, but gestures with limbs important. Raise hands and move how I say._

 _OK,_ Batman tapped back. 

The following conversation was a challenge that couldn’t have been overcome without his and Batman’s hard-earned rapport on the field. They couldn’t reproduce the scent marking any more than the Lantern’s Ring could, but they worked together to duplicate the Sneeze’s physical gestures while Clark strained his throat reproducing the screeches and clicks of their spoken language. Clark knew he was missing a lot of the nuance, but hoped he was understanding the basic gist correctly.

“Why have you invaded our planet?” he and Batman asked together.

“Need … new home,” came the response. Superman translated to Batman as best he could on the fly.

“The Green Lantern offered you a new home—was there something wrong with the planet?”

“No other species… Deserted… Abandoned… Green Lantern offered alliance. We followed him but he … rejected us. Betrayal…. Traitor….”

“The Green Lantern did not understand you. Your language is difficult for him. He did not intend to betray you.”

“No … traitor? Still … friend? Offer … home?”

Superman winced. “You require another species to live with you, cooperatively?” he asked.

“Yes. Look like Lantern … Stand upright … walk long on land … flexible digits. Our former friends killed … in war… home … unsustainable without them. We need new allies.”

Clark was silent a moment; much though he would have liked to offer these people asylum on Earth, he recognized that humans were… simply not ready to share their planet with giant spiders who required symbiotic allies.

 _Ask if their home is intact._ Batman tapped. Clark did so.

“Yes, home… intact but … unsustainable. We require allies.”

_Say Lantern will take them home. Bring them allies._

“New friends … in home? Other queens… will seek… find… agreement.”

 _I think she agrees but has to talk to other queens,_ Clark tapped.

 _Drones return to ship,_ Bruce commanded. Clark winced.

“The people on this planet do not have interstellar travel technology, they are not used to seeing strangers. Can you please pull your people back to your ships? They are frightening people here.”

“You … will remain?”

“Yes, I will stay here until an agreement is reached.”

“Agree.”

_We stay, drones pull back._

_Excellent._

_* * *_

It was a long day, but eventually Superman and Batman—and the Green Lantern, who was able to correct his Ring’s translation once he knew what the problem was—hammered out the details and struck a deal. The Sneeze would retreat back to their home planet, and the Green Lantern would find refugees from one of the other problem areas in his sector who would be happy to find a safe haven. Cyborg and Batman helped patch up the ships, and the Lantern sailed off to make sure the Sneeze got back safely. Clark had a feeling he was happy to have the excuse to leave immediately, hoping that Batman would have forgotten about the promised lecture by the time he got back. Clark didn’t think he’d have much luck with that, however. 

The rest of the JLA stood quietly together on the beach, watching the ships fly off. Clark smiled, bouncing a little on the soft sand, feeling ebullient. He and Batman had worked together like the well-oiled partners that they were; as ever, their friction (of whatever kind) off the field hadn’t affected their chemistry on it. And days like this, where nothing too serious went wrong, nobody died, and the JLA was able to help people in need and make new allies for Earth in the process, were all too rare.

Batman laughed wearily at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m assuming every SuperBat fan with internet access has seen the fanart I couldn’t resist referencing in this chapter, but JUST IN CASE: [here it is on tumblr. ](https://internerdionality.tumblr.com/post/617212151065624576/batmansuperman)
> 
> To those who have commented—I appreciate your concern, but no worries, I'm not actually as self-conscious about my writing as this chapter title implied! It was meant as a joke about how there ended up not actually BEING that much action in this chapter, since our boys managed to solve things without bloodshed (good on them!).


	11. Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for Clark dealing briefly with some transphobic microaggressions. Skip the italic text in ellipses to avoid.  
> Sex acts detailed at the end.

On Tuesday night, Bruce picked Clark up at the ferry slip. Clark felt surreal getting into the long black limo in his tuxedo, like he was going to prom.

Of course, Clark hadn’t actually gone to his prom in a limo, since Smallville didn’t really run to that kind of thing—he’d taken Lana in his dad’s old Honda, terrified all out of measure since it was his first real formal outing after transitioning. She’d been sloshed before they’d gotten halfway there, and the whole night had ended pretty much in disaster. But that was another story.

They got to the movie theater and walked down the red carpet together, flashbulbs going off. Bruce drew Clark close, and Clark barely kept himself from chuckling at his proprietary smugness.

They had time to get drinks and mingle for about fifteen minutes before the ushers started signaling people into the theater proper. The fact that Bruce was dating Clark—and who Clark was—had clearly already circulated among the more gossip-prone of Gotham’s elite. Bruce tried to intervene protectively a few times, but Clark enjoyed thinking up proper midwestern answers to the overly curious or hostile among the moviegoers:

* * *

_“I love your suit, but isn’t it a bit… normal? For you?”_

_“Aw, shucks, thanks.” Clark responded. “I’ve always figured a little normalcy was needed to balance me out, but clearly I went too far. Bless your heart for setting me straight—well. Not straight, exactly.” He winked at the bewildered starlet._

* * *

_“Ehh, Brucie! I heard you were going out with one of those transgendered fellahs. At least you kept him from wearing a dress, huh?”_

_“I haven’t worn a dress since I was five, actually, but thanks for enlightening me on the current state of gender education in Gotham.”_

* * *

_“So, uh… how exactly does that work? With Bruce and you, I mean?”_

_“Well, honey, I know people like to rag on the commute, but really, it’s not that bad. Especially when your boyfriend owns a jet.”_

* * *

_“I liked those articles you wrote on Superman when you were first starting out, but you’ve just been getting much too political these days. Just need to tone it down a little, you know?”_

_“Oh, absolutely,” Clark agreed. “I mean, really, journalism and politics shouldn’t have anything to do with each other, right? Much better to stick to completely apolitical issues like superpowered vigilantes.”_

_* * *_

Bruce was practically choking on repressed laughter as the lights dimmed and he guided Clark into the theater and toward their front-row seats. Clark grinned at him mischievously.

“Well. That was fun,” Bruce whispered. “Can’t wait to turn you loose on a full gala of these idiots.”

Clark chuckled. “Yeah, well. Not something I’d want to have to do every day, but it can have its moments.”

Clark shifted closer to Bruce as the lights went down.

“You know,” he said. “I didn’t think to ask. How did Gotham score this premiere, anyway? You don’t usually see them outside of LA, New York, maybe London sometimes.”

“Oh,” Bruce said dismissively, “I think one of the funders is from here, a big fan. And they shot some scenes downtown.”

They watched the movie, Clark enjoying himself immensely despite the distraction of having Bruce curled around him, hands lightly stroking down Clark’s shoulder and knee, breath tickling Clark’s ear as he whispered commentary about the movie’s various easter eggs and homages to the original show. After the movie, Bruce pulled Clark up to the front, where some of the actors had gathered, answering questions and greeting the crowd.

“Bruce!” called an older gentleman. Clark recognized Simon Trent with a start; the original Gray Ghost actor had had a cameo in the reboot. He and Bruce advanced on each other and embraced.

“I can’t thank you enough for hosting this premiere,” Simon said. Bruce shrugged bashfully, giving Clark a sidelong, guilty look.

“I really didn’t do that much,” he tried to demur, only to be snorted off by the actor.

“Don’t be ridiculous; I’d still be a washed-up has-been, unable to pay rent if it weren’t for you.” Simon assured him.

Bruce laughed awkwardly and asked a question about the movie; that triggered a series of anecdotes by the charming older man that Clark and Bruce listened to appreciatively until Trent was called away.

“One of the funders is from here, huh,” Clark mocked gently. Bruce blushed.

“Oh my god, you’re a nerd!” Clark said gleefully. “You’re a giant geek, same as me. Why wouldn’t you tell me that?”

Bruce sighed. “I don’t even know. I’m just used to hiding it, I guess? It earned me a lot of shit at Gotham Academy.”

“It just makes me like you more,” Clark assured him.

Back in the limo and pulling away from the event, Clark and Bruce leaned into each other simultaneously, making out like teenagers. After checking to make sure the privacy barrier was up between their compartment and the driver, Clark happily clambered onto Bruce’s lap. After a few minutes, however, Bruce spread his legs wide and pushed Clark onto the vehicle floor. As Clark sat, bewildered, between his knees, Bruce unzipped his pants.

“Bruce!” Clark hissed, looking back at divider; it might block out sight, but the driver could surely hear them.

Bruce smirked. “You did say you especially enjoyed being used like this. So, I guess we’ll just have to be very quiet.”

He pulled Clark’s head down onto his dick, encouraging him with nudges and whispers to lick and suck him to full hardness. That goal achieved, he took Clark’s head between his two hands in an unforgiving grip and began thrusting slowly but deeply, hissing quietly at each full extension but otherwise making no noise. Increasingly aroused despite himself, Clark relaxed his lips and throat and let Bruce use him, wrapping his hands around Bruce’s calves for balance.

His lungs were burning and his jaw sore by the time Bruce finished, grunting quietly, filling Clark’s mouth. He swallowed, enjoying the feel of the slick slide down his raw throat. Bruce had collapsed back against the car seat, breathing deeply with his eyes closed, so Clark took the initiative to do up Bruce’s pants and then raised himself back up to the car seat, dusting and straightening his own clothes. Bruce smiled and reached out a hand to clasp Clark’s, without opening his eyes.

They sat in silent, calm communion for the rest of the ride. When they arrived at the apartment building, Bruce led him out of the limo in the same quiet, contemplative mood, tipping the driver and then tucking Clark’s hand into the crook of his elbow and walking him past the doorman.

In the elevator, Bruce reversed course, turning into a whirlwind, pushing Clark up against the mirrored side and almost shredding Clark’s clothing in his haste to get it off, kissing him to within an inch of his life. Clark, bewildered, tried to reciprocate, but Bruce was completely in control; his hands seemed to be everywhere, unfastening, unbuttoning, unnerving, while his body consistently slid out from under Clark’s grasping hands. By the time they got up to the fourteenth floor—thank god, without stopping, although perhaps Bruce had an override protocol—Bruce’s clothes were only slightly ruffled, while Clark was completely nude except for his tie, which Bruce had somehow managed to leave, only slightly loosened, around his neck. Panting, Clark thought that this clothed/naked kink that Bruce apparently had going on was growing on him.

“Pick your clothes up,” Bruce ordered throatily, unlocking the apartment door. It took Clark a couple of fumbles and dropped items, but he managed to gather up all the strewn clothing and his shoes into a secure bundle in his arms. Bruce came back for him and grabbed his tie, holding it with a tight fist near Clark’s throat, and dragged him through the antechamber into the apartment. Clark gasped and stumbled after, his mind going gray with static as he fell headlong into subspace.

“You can drop those anywhere,” Bruce said, kicking the door closed behind them and pulling Clark toward the middle door in the eastern wall. Almost there, however, he seemed to reconsider and turned Clark back toward the main room, pushing him face down on the heavy cherrywood dining table.

“Stretch your arms out and grab the other side of the table,” Bruce ordered. Clark did as commanded, bracing his feet against the floor, grunting as the edge of the table dug into his quads.

“Now, this isn’t a punishment,” Bruce said, running his hands up and down Clark’s back and cupping his butt. “It’s a warmup and a treat for both of us. So, I want to hear ‘please,’ ‘thank you,’ ‘yes,’ or ‘more’ as long as you want to keep going. Once you stop responding, or say ‘no’ or ‘stop,’ we move on to the rest of our evening. Understood?”

“Yes,” Clark said, trembling in anticipation. Bruce didn’t make him wait any longer, bringing his open hand down in a hard slap across Clark’s left cheek.

He yelped. “Thank you!”

“That’s my good boy,” Bruce approved. Clark panted, his skin thrumming in reaction.

Bruce kept spanking him for a while, clearly getting off on it just as much as Clark. He varied the location and frequency of his blows so that Clark could not anticipate them, but continuously ramped up the intensity until, finally, Clark could only yell and whimper instead of verbalizing a response.

Bruce stopped and bent over, resting his weight on Clark’s lower torso and laving his shoulder blades with kisses. “You took that so well,” he praised. “So good for me… you should see yourself, you look so hot like this. Your bottom matches this table, so warm and red and inviting…”

Clark murmured incoherently, welcoming the reassuring pressure of Bruce’s body on top of his. Bruce turned him over and gathered him up into his arms, cradling him against his chest as they moved through the door, down a hall, and into a large bedroom. Bruce put Clark down gently on his feet and sat down, pulling a small black trunk out from under the bed. Clark felt himself sink down naturally onto his knees, and he laid his head in Bruce’s lap. Bruce made a deep, throaty sound.

“Jesus, you’re unreal,” he muttered. Clark pulled his head back, unwontedly sensitive to any criticism or seeming rejection while in subspace.

“No, no, baby,” Bruce reassured him, stroking his hair. “That’s a good thing. You’re so responsive, so trusting… I’ve never played with a sub like you; you go down for me so easily. The way you react is like you’ve been mine for years, but I’m still getting to explore, everything new and exciting.” Clark buried his head back in Bruce’s lap, feeling a little guilty, although he was far enough down not to be able to think of why.

Bruce petted his head for a while, then nudged his shoulder lightly, turning him to look at the box.

“I want you to pick out one thing you’d like to try out tonight,” he said, opening it. “Everything in here has been sterilized or replaced entirely in the past week, by the way, depending on how intimately it was used.”

Clark looked inside and inhaled sharply. A plethora of toys met his view; something for everyone, it seemed. He hesitated over the impact toys; he would have liked more pain, but even more than that he wanted Bruce close, touching him, not at the end of a ranged object. Finally, he picked out a handsome five-piece set of restraints in red leather and black absorbent fleece.

“This counts as one thing, right?” he asked cheekily. Bruce laughed and nodded in acquiescence.

“Good choice,” Bruce approved, and put them on the bed next to him. Before closing the playbox, he pulled out a condom, some straps that could wrap around the bedframe and snap onto the restraints, and a simple leather blindfold. Clark whined at the last.

“Sorry,” Bruce said cheerfully. “You can have the blindfold or we can turn the lights off; which do you prefer?”

Clark pouted. “The blindfold.”

Bruce nodded and pulled Clark up onto the bed with him. He began buckling on the ankle and wrist restraints, kissing and stroking Clark as he did so. Finished, he positioned Clark face up on the bed, and began strapping him down, one limb to each corner of the bed. Once the straps were pulled tightly enough that Clark couldn’t move an inch, Bruce grabbed the collar that had come with the set. Clark shivered as Bruce pulled the it tight and buckled it. The collar was wide enough that Clark could no longer duck his head without it digging into his collarbones or jaw, and made him feel especially vulnerable, open, _claimed_. Lastly, Bruce took another strap, fastened it to the D-ring on the collar, and wrapped it around the wood of the headboard, locking Clark’s head into place.

“Alright,” Bruce said quietly. “Time for the blindfold.” Clark screwed his eyes shut as Bruce gently removed his glasses, putting them down on the nightstand next to the bed with a click of metal against wood, and lowered the blindfold into place. After that, there was a long pause. Clark, straining his remaining senses, heard rustling and crinkling, and suddenly a lightbulb dawned. Bruce must have scars from his years of being Batman; perhaps even bruises or fresh wounds from his last few nights of vigilante activity. Since Clark had asked for more skin-to-skin contact, Bruce had to find another way to keep him from seeing things that couldn’t be easily explained. He still felt a little disappointed, but understanding why he wasn’t getting to see helped.

Then Bruce settled back over him, completely naked as far as Clark could tell, and his disappointment fled.

“Oh god, yes, so good,” he babbled, as the electricity of their contact flushed through his senses. Bruce moaned approvingly and kissed him deeply, stroking his arms and sides, clashing their groins together. Bruce ground against Clark slowly, hands caressing him fitfully with only an occasional scratch, pinch, or bite to keep Clark’s arousal peaked. Clark quickly grew impatient.

“Please, Bruce, more. Please fuck me,” he pleaded.

“Oh, not quite yet,” Bruce demurred, his low, dark voice next to Clark’s ear sending shivers down his spine. “I’m enjoying having you at my mercy. I want to see how much more you can take, how loud and fierce and desperate I can make you, until you’re sobbing for my cock.”

Clark gulped; he was already aching for it. Relinquishing his mouth, Bruce began slowly exploring Clark’s body with his hands and lips and tongue and teeth, lingering over each spot that made Clark tense or shiver or cry out, occasionally readjusting the straps, repositioning Clark so he could reach new areas. Clark begged in increasingly shredded tones, but Bruce took no notice, just continued his patient survey of all of Clark’s hot spots _except_ the ones that might make him come. Clark was soon cursing, his voice rising in fevered urgency.

Taking pity on him, Bruce finally lowered his fingers down between Clark’s legs. Clark was so aroused that he came almost immediately, shouting in pleasure and thrusting himself up against Bruce’s hand. He collapsed, shaking in reaction, and Bruce went back to the same grind as at the beginning, whispering praise and encouragement and filthy promises.

This continued for what seemed like hours to Clark’s time-addled senses, Bruce teasing and torturing him, only letting him climax when he’d sufficiently emphasized the depths of his need.

As Clark roused again sometime after his second orgasm, feeling soaked with sweat and come and tears of frustration, Bruce repositioned him in same spread-eagled position, on his back, that he’d been in at first, then flipped his legs up from the bottom of the bed and reclipped them to the same straps as his arms, on either side of the headboard. Clark groaned as his leg and hip muscles sharply protested the stretch despite their relaxed pliancy, but then purred in renewed pleasure, babbling his gratitude, as Bruce settled between his legs and finally nudged inside his slick, dripping hole.

And then Bruce _stopped_ , barely an inch in, pulled out, and repeated the motion. Even as he cursed him anew, Clark marveled at Bruce’s self-control as he continued the tease, essentially stroking Clark’s rim with his dick while providing fleeting, featherlight touches above to keep Clark on the edge. As Clark’s incoherent grumbles rose again into pleas for more, for mercy, for release, Bruce nudged a bit farther in—and then started all over again from that point.

Bruce thrust and retreated over and over again, advancing inch-by-inch in response to Clark’s pleas, making him beg for every forward step. When he was about halfway in, Clark came _again_ , crying out with the bliss of it, and Bruce finally, _finally_ buried himself hilt deep, moaning in pleasure as Clark contracted around him. Clark whimpered, tears of overstimulation leaking out from under the blindfold as Bruce fucked him through his orgasm, rigid and huge inside his limp, exhausted body. Bruce unhooked Clark’s legs from their painfully taut position and wrapped them around his waist, amping up the frequency and force of his thrusts as Clark’s body began to respond again.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Bruce whispered, and reclaimed Clark’s lips, now pounding him into the mattress. Clark felt like Bruce was everywhere, inside him and around him and drinking him deep, and he was drowning in it. Unable to see, he was hyperconscious of the electric slide of skin on skin, the sound of their sweaty bodies slapping together, the sultry smell of sex filling the room.

After an unmeasurable period of this, Bruce’s thrusts began stuttering at last, losing their measured rhythm as he neared his own climax. He lowered his hand back down between Clark’s legs, stroking urgently.

“Come with me, baby,” he hissed, and the two of them flew together.

Afterward, with Clark untied and resting contentedly in his arms, Bruce pulled back a little, reaching over to the far-side nightstand.

“How on Earth…” Clark muttered in surprise as Bruce began slowly caressing his tired body with a hot wet washcloth. He was out of it, to be sure, and Bruce hadn’t removed the blindfold with the rest of the restraints, but he was certain Bruce couldn’t have gotten up and gone to the bathroom without him noticing.

“I have a crockpot next to the bed,” Bruce murmured. Clark laughed incredulously.

“Hey, do _you_ want to get up right now?” Bruce asked, chuckling quietly with him. He continued washing Clark, then moved away slightly, doing something that resulted in splashing and rustling sounds. A few minutes later, Bruce finally took off the blindfold and handed him his glasses. Clark put them on, squinting as his eyes adjusted. The room was full of sharp-edged brightness and shadows, lit only by a glass-shaded lamp on Clark’s side of the bed. Bruce, lying next to him, now wore a set of black pajamas made of some soft, shining fabric, almost indistinguishable from the black coverlet that Bruce pulled up around them. Bruce leaned over Clark, turning off the light, and kissed him softly.

“Good night,” he whispered, then curled up against Clark’s back, seemingly falling almost instantly asleep, snoring lightly. All fucked out and pleasantly aching, Clark followed him just a few minutes later.

After little more than an hour of sleep, however, Bruce roused and tiptoed out. Since Bruce was clearly trying not to disturb him, Clark pretended not to have woken up. Once Bruce left, however, Clark turned onto his back, staring up at the dark ceiling, meditating over the intense session. He knew now, of course, why he’d felt guilty when Bruce had praised his reactions. Bruce had no way of knowing that Clark had been putting his life in Batman’s hands for months; of course, his trusting responses seemed too good to be true. Clark had the same sense of surreality as he thought back over their encounters, with much less excuse.

He’d gone into this believing that Bruce Wayne was only a foppish cover for the true personality, which he’d _thought_ was the Batman he knew—dominant, brilliant, and trustworthy, to be sure, pushing all of Clark’s buttons, but also grim, paranoid, and misanthropic. Someone that Clark would not have been likely to fall all that hard for. Now he knew that neither persona was the real Bruce. The man he’d spent time with over the past week was someone else entirely; charming, passionate, caring, witty, nerdy, engaged. The sex was like nothing Clark had ever experienced before; something deep inside him responded to Bruce’s demands, his _need_ , with a full-flowered submission that no other lover had ever called forth, and the resultant flames were consuming him.

Clark sighed despondently. If he already felt like this after a week, what was the likelihood that he could possibly get through several months with an uncompromised heart?

Turning over in bed and cuddling up into the pillows that still smelled like Bruce, Clark resolved to let the future care for itself. If he was going to end up heartbroken no matter what, there was no point in worrying about it, or hurting himself in the meantime by trying to repress his emotions.

If he was falling off a cliff anyway, he might as well enjoy the view on the way down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acts include: face-fucking, spanking, bondage, edging, sensory deprivation, fingering, and penetrative sex.
> 
> [Back to top ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701693/chapters/57945544#main)
> 
> The prom story I’m referencing is from Chapter 12 of [Fabularasa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa)’s [Sanctuary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16363970/chapters/38797241), because I couldn’t resist, even though it doesn’t exactly fit in this AU for obvious reasons.


	12. Interludes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s an outtake/deleted scene that takes place between the last chapter and this one, which you can read [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24092344). I split it off as it’s blatantly self-indulgent interior decoration porn, smattered with just a bit of actual porn.
> 
> For people who are filtering by sexual position, they switch it up in this chapter.

The next couple months passed by in a timeless haze. Clark had the sense that he was holding onto the seconds, stretching and spreading the minutes, desperately trying to savor every blissful hour and make it last; at the same time, the days seemed to fly by, rushing through his helpless fingers.

Clark’s relationship with Bruce extended and deepened far past where Selina and Lois—and Bruce, for that matter—had primed him to expect. Although they only went on a few society outings each month, Bruce came to the apartment several times a week, usually giving Clark a warning via text in the wee hours of the night and then slipping into his bed a while before dawn to rouse him with fevered caresses. Sometimes Bruce just burrowed into Clark’s arms and slept by his side for a few hours, disappearing just before Clark’s alarm pinged him to begin work.

Clark also continued to fight by Batman’s side as Superman. Although nothing seemed to explicitly change in their professional relationship, they both seemed more comfortable in their interactions, at ease with each other instead of constantly at odds. Clark had to wonder how much of their previous tension had been due to his own desires, from how he had been pushing to get closer to his teammate and then reacting in hurt to Batman’s rejections.

In the second month of their relationship, Bruce started occasionally spending time with Clark during the day, as well. At that point, recalling the temporary and transactional nature of the relationship became simply impossible.

* * *

“So, Lois texted me the other day,” Bruce said, turning and leaning back against the end of the sofa and throwing his bare feet on Clark’s lap. Clark paused the Gray Ghost rerun they’d been watching and started slowly massaging Bruce’s soles and arches.

Bruce groaned in pleasure. “Oh god, yes. You can keep doing that for the next month or so. Take more time if you need.”

“I’ll clear my schedule. What did Lois want?”

“To remind me that you are committed to her for game night tonight, so I am not to pressure you into staying home.” Bruce answered sleepily. He’d crawled into Clark’s bed around 4:30 that morning and slept like a log until Clark tempted him out to the living room with the promise of pancakes. “She also invited me to come along, if I’d like.”

Clark looked at him sharply. “…and? Would you like?”

Bruce shrugged. “I think it could be an interesting evening, if you want me to come. But I don’t know if your friends would like how I usually act in public.”

Clark mulled that over. “Well… maybe if you played up being outrageous and silly, and played down the fool act? My friends are pretty bizarre, they’ll take weirdness in stride. But I don’t think they’d believe I’m dating someone stupid.”

“Hmmm. That’s fair. So, I’m a horny thrillseeker and a drama queen, I’ve got brains, I just don’t use them that constructively. And they’ll figure the media reputation is due to homophobia and slutshaming.”

“Yeah, I think that’d work fine.”

Later that evening, Clark had realized that having tacitly given Bruce permission to take his act to the nth level had maybe not been the best idea. Bruce had shown up with a full box of champagne— _actual_ champagne from Epernay, and Clark didn’t want to think about how much that cost—and immediately started up a campaign of weirdness. He’d flirted nonstop with every partygoer, but in such a silly, clearly nonserious way that no one had minded. He’d burst into song several times, including doing the entirely of A British Tar from Gilbert and Sullivan. At one point, he’d pulled out his phone and started walking people through MBTI personality tests. He’d even gotten in a _twenty-minute argument_ with Theo about whether Fahrenheit or Celsius was the superior measuring system (their conclusion: Kelvin). And he’d also managed to completely destroy everyone in several board games in quick succession, including Shadow Hunters, Clank, Dominion, and, as the night closed out, Unstable Unicorns. 

Closing out the evening, Clark wasn’t sure whether his friends would be telling the inevitable “When I met Bruce Wayne” stories in tones of horror or hilarity—or possibly both. He _was_ sure of two things, however: first, if someone ever raised the idea that Bruce Wayne might be Batman near his friends, they would quash the idea in short order; and second, Bruce had enjoyed himself to the max.

* * *

“Oh my god,” Clark said hollowly, not able to take his eyes off of Bruce. “Somebody pinch me. This can’t be real. Ow!” he exclaimed as Ash willingly obliged him.

Dick giggled, pressing his hands over his mouth. With the curly mop of golden hair he had stuck on his head, the effect was insanely cute.

“Seriously,” Jimmy agreed, also staring at Bruce. “This is like every wet—” he stopped himself quickly, looking down at the twelve-year-old, as Bruce shot him a warning glance and Clark gripped his shoulder tightly. “Um. Your cosplays are really cool.”

“I like yours, too!” Dick said. “I love Gray Ghost. Did you all watch Hercules? We’re on the third season. Bruce said it was one of his favorites when he was my age, so we started it after we finished Gray Ghost.”

“Yeah, it was one of my favorites, too,” Clark agreed, sidling closer to Bruce and trying to subtly look down his shirt. There was a lot of shirt to look down. Bruce had somehow managed to wrangle a near-perfect replica of Kevin Sorbo’s costume from _The Legendary Journeys,_ complete with a shoulder-length light-brown wig, a “shirt” slit down to his waist, gauntlets, and tight—oh so gloriously tight!—latticed leather pants. The illusion was completed by Dick; despite being a well-grown kid, he barely came up to Bruce’s armpit and was adorable in his patchwork vest, leather pants (much looser than Bruce’s), and accessories.

“You should have told us in advance, though,” Ash commented. “We could have gotten Lois and her new girlfriend to come as Xena and Gabby.”

Clark’s eyes crossed a bit as he envisioned Diana in a Xena cosplay. Then he blanched as he thought about Diana’s probable reaction to those shows.

“We watched the episodes with Xena in Hercules, but we haven’t watched any of her show yet,” Dick said. “Bruce said he thought parts of it might be too adult for me,” he added with a glare at Bruce, which the rest of the group echoed.

“I just thought, with her past as a villain, the ethics of Xena are a little more nuanced,” Bruce protested. “We can watch it once we finish Hercules, alright buddy?”

“Yeah, watching those shows was a rite of passage for all of us,” Jimmy agreed. He leaned into Clark, whispering. “Dude, if you ever want to lend out your boyfriend…”

“Mine,” Clark hissed back. “Acres and acres, and it’s all mine.”

He went back to ogling. Although thoroughly appreciating the view, he was also somewhat puzzled by Bruce’s gleaming chest, bare under just a tasty smattering of hair. Had Clark been wrong about the scars…? As Bruce turned, giving Clark a lateral view under his shirt, Clark realized what he had done. There were almost imperceptible places—nothing Clark would have noticed had he not been looking for it—where Bruce’s skin seemed slightly different in color and texture. Clark recognized it from some beta-testing the League had done several months back. It was a prosthetic skin that Bruce had developed for disguises, as it could be programmed to any skin tone and could change face structure to a limited extent. It worked better if it was used in solid pieces so that it couldn’t be contrasted with real skin, but it blocked sensory perception and got itchy and uncomfortable over large sections of the body. Even used in patches, however, it was only noticeable from very close up, under bright light.

“C’mon!” Dick was saying. “I want to see the Con!”

“Right!” Clark agreed, shaking off his stupor. “We should go get some pictures, then check out Artist Alley… see if there are any panels we want to see or autographs we want to get…”

“I want to get autographs with all the Gray Ghost actors and then see their panel!” Dick announced immediately.

Bruce groaned. “Dick, we’d have to stand in line for _hours._ If you want to meet the actors, I can just make a call—”

“No,” Dick said immediately. “Then they’ll feel like they _have_ to be nice to me.”

“C’mon, Bruce,” Clark said lightly. “You can’t keep him from queueing. We’re nerds, it’s what we do.”

“The academic parts are supposed to be really good this year,” Ash put in. “One of my friends is presenting a paper on reflections of real-life supervillains in current media and got Doctors Quinzel and Isley to come speak.”

Bruce choked. “That… doesn’t seem like the best idea?”

Ash shrugged. “I think they’re getting community service credit for it.”

* * *

“Are you awake?”

Clark grunted sleepily. There was a heavy weight pressing him down into the mattress. How heavy would something have to be that _he_ couldn’t shake it off?

“Are you awake?”

The weight began moving suggestively, pushing against Clark’s midsection. Right. Clark was home, in bed. Bruce had texted a couple hours ago, while Clark had been helping clean up a plague of locusts—yes, seriously—in East Africa. He’d finished blowing the locusts out to sea, flown home, put on the ring, and promptly fell asleep for the first time in about a week.

He purred, turning over. “I am now.”

“Mmmm, good.” Bruce said, kissing him in a most unfair way, a peck and then a deep plunge, and then back out, tantalizingly. “I had a good day.”

“Yeah?”

“Details are confidential, but I finally solved a problem we’ve been having for quite a while and put one over on a guy I hate in the process,” Bruce said happily. “ _Very_ good day.” 

“Well. I’m happy you decided to celebrate with me,” Clark said, drawing Bruce down for a longer kiss.

“Mmmm, yes. Speaking of celebration…” Bruce lifted himself up a bit, so he could fit a hand between them and fondle Clark lower down.

“Celebration, yeah?” Clark asked breathlessly, when Bruce didn’t continue immediately.

“I’d really like you to fuck me,” Bruce said, looking intently into Clark’s eyes.

Clark groaned in anticipation. “Mmm, you don’t have to ask me twice,” he said, slithering out from under Bruce and reaching for the playbox.

“I never have to ask you twice for anything,” Bruce said contentedly, lying back against the pillows. “So good for me… “

“I try,” Clark agreed, pulling himself back upright, throwing various accoutrements and supplies on the bed, and rolling over to kiss Bruce soundly.

They made out for a while, lazily and without intent, grinding against each other in the bed, Bruce’s pajamas feeling soft and cozy against Clark’s bare skin, before Clark remembered his mission and pulled back, reaching for his equipment. He was excited for the chance to get a good, unobstructed view of Bruce coming apart in pleasure, since when Bruce had orgasmed in their encounters thus far it had always been when Clark was blindfolded, had his mouth stuffed full, or was busy coming his own brains out at the same time (or some combination thereof).

“How do you want it?” he asked, getting himself ready. Bruce took a deep breath, and then sat up in bed, stripping. Clark feasted with his eyes as Bruce revealed himself in the soft moonlight streaming in from the windows. There was no way to tell in the dimness what skin was prosthetic and what was real, no matter how close Clark might get.

“Like this, to start,” Bruce said, laying his shoulders back against the pillows and spreading his legs wide, knees bent, and feet planted on the mattress. Clark groaned at the sight and quickly knelt down in child’s pose between Bruce’s thighs. Slicking his gloved hand up, he began contentedly sucking Bruce to hardness while leisurely fingering him open. Unsurprisingly, Bruce managed to be bossy about it, an unending stream of instructions issuing out of his mouth, occasionally peppered with praise.

“I do actually know how to do this,” Clark commented cheekily on one air break.

Bruce chuckled and gripped the back of Clark’s head in his hands, thrusting up hard. Clark choked.

“And who is in control here?” Bruce reminded him, settling back down.

“You are,” Clark croaked apologetically.

“Good boy,” Bruce praised, petting the back of Clark’s head. Clark shivered, returning to his task.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Bruce commanded once Clark was easily thrusting three fingers in and out of his loose hole, dripping with lube. Bruce flipped himself over onto elbows and knees, shaking his ass demandingly in the air.

“As you wish,” Clark said huskily, lifting himself upright on his knees and pressing his hands into his back, which was a little sore from being bent over for so long.

Figuring that Bruce probably fucked how he liked to be fucked, Clark settled himself over Bruce’s back, getting as much skin-to-skin contact as possible. Kissing Bruce’s shoulders and neck, he nudged inside Bruce’s hole, setting up a slow, gentle rhythm. Bruce issued commands in an increasing raspy voice as Clark ran his hands caressingly over his back and sides, then groaned approvingly as Clark slowly increased the speed, depth, and force of his thrusts in response to Bruce’s demands. With the aid of Bruce’s instructions, it was only a short time before Clark figured out what his lover liked best and settled into it, thrusting in as hard as he could—relishing the sound of Bruce’s grunts and moans—then pulling out slowly, savoring every second as Bruce shivered underneath him. He’d found Bruce’s prostate almost by accident early on, earning himself a hissing string of approving curses from his lover, and now angled himself to brush by it on every pass.

“Oh god,” Bruce said, his voice drunk with pleasure, “You’re so good. Touch me, I want to come with your hand on me.”

“Can I turn you over?” Clark asked. “Please, I wanna see you come.”

“Mmmm, since you asked so nicely,” Bruce approved.

Clark pulled out, pulling a pillow down and helping Bruce turn over onto it. Spreading his lover’s legs wide, he settled back down between them, pushing immediately back in and beginning to stroke Bruce’s dick.

“Oh fuck, yes. Right there. Harder. Oh yeah,” Bruce started babbling, throwing his head back in pleasure and gripping the pillows on either side of him, bracing himself against Clark’s thrusts.

Clark watched avidly as Bruce contorted in pleasure, his eyes rolling back, face gone slack and absent, muscles rigidly clenched. The sight was too much for Clark, and he ground himself into Bruce as hard as he could, the pressure at the base of his cock pushing him over as well. He collapsed on top of his lover, shaking in bliss. 

After taking a minute to savor the moment, Clark pushed himself up on one elbow. Bruce looked near-comatose, laying back against the pillows with his eyes closed, a giddy smile on his face. Clark pulled out slowly and went to the bathroom to clean up (in his hurry to get home when Bruce had texted earlier, he’d forgotten to set up the crockpot). After a thirty-second shower, he headed back to the bed with a hot towel, and took his time cleaning Bruce off, stroking every muscle and worshipping every curve. Bruce permitted his attentions with a regal air, allowing himself to be moved this way and that, his eyes still closed. Once the washcloth cooled for the third time, Clark discarded it and curled up next to Bruce. The next thing he knew, he was pressed down face-first into the bed, Bruce settling his weight down evenly across Clark’s body, his legs and arms spread to cover Clark’s limbs.

“Hmmm?” Clark murmured as best he could with two hundred plus pounds of sheer muscle flattening him.

“Thank you,” Bruce whispered in his ear. “That was exactly what I wanted.”

And then, as far as Clark could tell, Bruce fell asleep, his head pillowed on the back of Clark’s neck.

Clark wheezed out a laugh and nestled himself down into the soft mattress, letting his own sleepiness pull him under.

The next morning, clicking through his RSS feed of breaking headlines, Clark read “Roman Sionis Revealed as Black Mask, Arrested After Epic Fight with Batman” and grinned smugly.

* * *

“Don’t take our rights away! Hands off the ADA!” activists shouted.

“How the hell did you get him to come to this,” Lois hissed into Clark’s ear.

“I didn’t even ask,” Clark whispered back, looking smugly at his boyfriend, who was holding up a protest sign someone had shoved into his hands when they arrived, taking immediate advantage of his tall stature. “He asked if I was busy, I told him what I was doing, and he said he’d come along.”

Lois shook her head unbelievingly. “If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. He’s even wearing a t-shirt.”

“And it looks good on him,” Clark noted. “I really didn’t think those things looked good on anyone.”

Lois snorted. “Don’t fish for compliments. I’m going to go see if I can get a quote from Lucas; you talk to Gibson and Farrar.”

“Right.”

The protest wrapped up not long after that; Lois and Clark did a bit more schmoozing, talking with the leaders about how they’d like to see the event covered, then collected Bruce from where he was standing patiently near the Capitol steps. 

“So, Bruce,” Lois said pointedly. “What made you come out today? Doesn’t exactly fit your persona, does it?”

Bruce shrugged. “Not likely that anyone would recognize me in Metropolis with the old celebrity disguise,” he said, tugging his baseball cap lower over his sunglasses. “It’s a good cause. WE is fully in compliance with the ADA and corrects anything that people bring to our attention, but most businesses drag their feet as much as they can already, and this bill would just make that worse.”

Lois snorted. “Preaching to the choir, obviously. But I can’t help but feel like you had some ulterior motives coming out for this one.”

Bruce chuckled and linked his arm with Clark’s. “Well, I admit, I generally tend to assume people would rather have my money than my presence at these things. But they’re a lot more enjoyable with the right company.”

Lois smiled. “Well. I thought I’d never see the day,” she said, taking Clark’s other arm. “Shall we get out of here?”

* * *

“You know, we could have ordered dessert from Antoine’s as well as dinner,” Bruce commented, looking up from his laptop.

Clark turned from where he’d been trying to peer at his souffle through the top oven door and glared across the room. “And as you know, because I’ve told you at least twice, if I were to ever have people over to my home for a meal and not cook _something_ for them, my mother would spontaneously combust at home in Kansas and it would be _my fault._ I honestly feel crappy that I’m not cooking the entire dinner.”

Bruce chuckled and stood up from the dining table, crossing over where Clark was still nervously shuffling his feet in the kitchen. “You just don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

Clark sighed. “Yeah… this recipe was one of my dad’s favorites. He was actually the big cook in the family, not my mom—she just has very fixed ideas about the obligations of a host. We have a huge patch of raspberry canes at home—not part of the farm, just for us—that grew up from a couple canes my dad took from _his_ parents’ backyard in Kansas City. July through September, I’d be out there picking them daily, and we’d have bowls of raspberries cluttering up every level of the fridge. My dad would put them in everything: raspberry compotes on our meats, raspberry cakes, preserves, jams—and souffles.” Clark defiantly swiped his fingers across his eyes, then adjusted his glasses back into place.

Bruce pulled Clark into his arms, hugging him tightly. They didn’t say anything, just swayed there for a long while until they were disturbed by the oven timer pinging.

“Okay, okay—just, don’t breathe, okay?” Clark whispered, grabbing the oven mitts. Holding his own breath, he gingerly opened the oven door and pulled out the golden-brown souffle. It had risen gloriously, pocked with holes and shaped in a perfect dome above the circular pot. He put it down on top of the counter as lightly as he could, then backed away slowly on his tiptoes, drawing Bruce with him. Once they’d gotten onto the carpet, he relaxed and turned, inhaling deeply. Bruce was clearly trying not laugh.

“Oh, shut up,” Clark said, and drew him in. They kissed for a while, and Bruce started backing him up toward the couch. Fortunately for Clark’s ability to get through the evening, the intercom buzzed before they could get there.

Lois was, predictably, the first to arrive, but Selina knocked on the door shortly thereafter, not bothering to call up first. Bruce made drinks while Clark pulled out the bruschetta and checked on the food keeping warm in the bottom oven. He’d been looking forward to this evening for quite a while—he wanted to give Bruce the chance to be himself around a group of people he knew and cared about.

Selina and Lois spent much of the evening mock-debating each other, both clearly enjoying themselves to the hilt. Bruce and Clark sat back and watched them sling volleys at each other like a tennis match, occasionally passing each other speaking looks. Clark found himself called in frequently to referee, and he amused himself by inventing “compromise” stances between each issue, even when they were clearly absurd. Bruce was quiet much of the evening, leaning back in his chair and watching the three of them spar with a warm, relaxed look in his eyes, but he spoke up a few times with obscure but relevant bits of information and trivia. Clark’s souffle was presented to rave reviews, having settled just enough for the taste of raspberries to intensify, while staying light and fluffy.

“Well,” Bruce said, draining the last of his scotch and standing, “This was a great night. I should get back, though—I like to get home before Dick goes to sleep.”

Lois raised an eyebrow, looking over at the stove clock. “Your kid stays up past eleven?” she asked. “I got sent to bed at nine every night until high school.”

“Ehhh. As long as he can be awake for school every morning, he sets his own schedule. It’s better for him to learn to do so now rather than later. He tends to go to bed around midnight and then catch up on sleep on the weekends.” Bruce shrugged. “I try not to enforce any rule I’m not willing to abide by myself.”

“What about driving, or alcohol? There are some behaviors that adults should do, and kids shouldn’t,” Lois pointed out.

“I don’t engage in illegal behavior, nor do I allow Dick to do so,” Bruce answered. “That takes care of the adult/child divide. Although we do give him the occasional sips of wine at dinner, if he asks. Which is legal in Gotham, as long as it’s in a private residence with parental permission.”

“Hmmm,” Lois responded. “Interesting.”

They all stood and moved into the antechamber as Bruce made his goodbyes, hugging Lois and Selina and kissing Clark lingeringly, then let the elevator doors close behind him.

“So,” Selina said as the three of them walked back into the apartment.

“Yes,” Lois agreed. “Spill!”

“What do you mean?” Clark asked nervously.

“Clark,” Lois said seriously. “I have _never_ seen him like this.”

Selina sighed. “I have, actually—maybe not to this extent, but similar.” They both looked sharply at her, and she shrugged uncomfortable. Gertrude ran over to her, mewing, and she took a minute to gather the cat up in her arms, rubbing her belly. “When Bruce and I were first together—it was before he started doing the sugar daddy thing in such a… structured way. We got pretty serious. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t fit myself into his life. I couldn’t be who he needed. So, I ended it. It was a hard time for both of us, and it was years before we could be friends again. He’s always had intimacy issues, walls he put up around himself, but they got a lot worse after that. Now… he seems like that young, passionate guy again. Like he’s in love.” 

Clark shrugged helplessly, feeling like a fist squeezing around his heart. “I—I care about him a lot. But he still… he says things, sometimes, about ‘oh, I need to take you there before the fall’ or—just stuff that reminds me this is still temporary.”

Selina nodded thoughtfully. “And he hasn’t… invited you over to the Manor? Shown you that, or… any other part of his life?”

Somehow, Clark managed to keep his face completely blank. Was she implying…?

“No,” he said, carefully. “I’ve met Dick, but he introduced me just as a friend. He said Dick’s case manager warned him to keep his “sexual exploits” away from his kid if he wants to retain custody.”

“What a piss-boil!” Lois hissed.

Selina shrugged. “Well, to be fair, Bruce can’t really blame that one on anyone but himself. Let’s be honest, if he wasn’t Gotham’s favored son, he’d probably never have gotten custody in the first place.” She looked up at Clark, seriously. “I don’t know if he’ll ever open up to you more, Clark. But if he does—try to take care with his heart, even if you find you can’t stay with him.”

Clark nodded silently, feeling incredibly guilty. He stared at the floor, trying to keep his face straight.

“Well,” Selina said, taking mercy on him. “Lois, I assume you were planning on staying the night, since the last ferry out is... about fifteen minutes ago,” she chuckled, glancing at her watch. “Are you having a quiet sleepover with Clark, or would you care to see some of the hot spots of Gotham?” She raised an eyebrow in silent invitation, a sultry smile on her lips.

“Only if you promise it’s going to go better than last time,” Lois said, half-seriously, a quick grin coming to her face.

“Oh for… are you ever going to let that go?” Selina demanded. “I swear I didn’t know that bar had been taken over by TERFs.”

“Which means you didn’t do your research properly,” Lois reminded her. “That is, as you know, a cardinal sin in my world.”

“Well, I’ve planned tonight very carefully, I assure you.” Selina said. “Clark, thank you for getting this one over to Gotham, it’d had been far too long since we had some time together.” She gave Lois a sidelong look. “Lois said you wouldn’t, but if you _want_ to come out with us, three’s never a crowd…”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Clark said quickly. “Clubbing isn’t really my scene anymore, and you two look like you have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Indeed,” Lois said throatily, running a hand down Selina’s arm. “Although,” she said, looking back and forth between her two friends. “Four also isn’t a crowd, if you and Bruce wanted to do bit of livelier socializing some time? For that matter, I bet I could get Diana to fly in—I want her to meet Selina…”

Clark cleared his throat, then went into a coughing spasm as he accidentally swallowed the wrong way. Walking back to the table, he took a hasty sip of wine.

“Um, yeah. I don’t think so. Anytime soon, anyway. But you two have fun tonight,” he managed to say, and began the process of getting them out the door.

After walking back into the apartment proper and locking up the door, he leaned his forehead against the cool wood for a moment, thinking hard. Lois’ idle suggestion had sent a stab of panic shooting down his gut, and he needed a second to come to terms with it. He’d _never_ been the jealous type—for all that he and Lois had been more or less monogamous, that had been more because of his dislike of spending time away from her than any unwillingness to see her with other people. In fact, the “less” part had been a few past lovers of hers that had been willing to play with them both. So why was he reacting this badly to what was a fairly obvious proposal, given the already-existing connections between the four of them?

It was fear, he realized. He thought he’d come to terms with the inevitable heartbreak that this fling with Bruce would bring him. He still thought it would be worth it. But Lois and Selina’s words tonight had sent hope shooting through him, and now, with that bolstering up his aspirations, he had something he was afraid to lose.

“Jealousy comes from insecurity,” he reminded himself, quoting one of the poly movement’s mantras.

He couldn’t share Bruce when he didn’t know how much longer he might get to keep him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acts include: oral sex, fingering, penetrative sex.  
> [Back to top](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701693/chapters/58089841#main)
> 
> Me while writing this chapter: you get to be queer, and you get to be queer, and you get to be queer. EVERYBODY gets to be queer!


	13. Unmasked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, sex acts listed at the end.

On a blustery morning in early April, Clark’s phone pinged while he was proofreading some of Lois’ articles at the office.

 _When do you get off?_ Bruce had texted.

 _As often as I can_ , Clark messaged back quickly, unable to resist the old pun. 

_Degenerate._ Bruce responded. Clark grinned. _I was just doing some planning for tonight. Wondered when you can get home?_

Clark's heart twinged a bit at the way Bruce had phrased his question; _home_.

 _That sounds promising,_ he responded. _Nothing too important happening so far today, I should be able to come home whenever._ The two of them were scheduled to attend a fundraising gala for the Gotham Museum of Art that evening, so he'd already planned on heading back to Gotham early.

 _Excellent,_ Bruce responded, then paused on a bouncing ellipsis for a while, indicating that he was typing—or had left the chat app open while he put his phone down, of course. Clark quirked his mouth.

_Just checking since it’s not something we’ve discussed yet. How do you do with prolonged anal play?_

Clark raised an intrigued eyebrow. _Haven’t done any in a while, more used to the ‘whir, stir, thank you, sir,’ kind of stuff in that area._ he typed back. _But did some in college and was into it._

 _Thank you, that’s super helpful!_ Bruce wrote back cheerily. Clark chuckled at the unintentional pun. _In that case, why don’t we meet early at the apartment before the gala and go down together? Say, 5:00?_

Clark grinned. The gala didn’t start till seven, and Bruce usually liked to arrive fashionably late. Apparently, Bruce had… quite extensive plans. _Sounds great, I’ll see you then._

_* * *_

Of course, after all that, Clark ended up being late due to an apartment building fire in Metropolis. Fortunately, he could legitimately cover the fire as Clark Kent to give him an excuse and then use super speed to stop at Lois’ place, change and wash off the smoke and grime, and race home in no time at all, so he got to Gotham only thirty minutes after the appointed hour.

“I’m so sorry to be late,” he apologized as he hurried in the apartment door and gave a meowing Gertrude her obligatory strokes.

“Don’t be,” Bruce demurred, putting down his laptop, standing, and walking over from the couch. “I had to cut our first date short due to work, it’d be pretty hypocritical of me to hold this against you. Anyway, we have plenty of time for the important parts of my plans, I was just being ambitious.”

“But maybe I like your ambitions…” Clark murmured, sliding his hands up Bruce’s chest. Bruce was clearly not yet dressed for the evening, wearing only a pair of simple gray slacks and a black chenille sweater that clung to his upper body in ways that should be illegal. Bruce chuckled and pulled Clark in for a kiss.

As always, Bruce’s touch sent electric sparks shooting down Clark’s spine. He kept expecting to get used to the effect Bruce had on him, for the new relationship energy to wane, but if anything, it was getting stronger. Bruce pushed him up against the door, lifted him up, and frotted against him. Clark locked his legs around Bruce’s waist and held on for the ride.

“So,” Bruce muttered between kisses, “I was hoping we could do a little scene to take the edge off before we head out.”

“Anything,” Clark avowed, drawing his head back up for another kiss.

“How do you feel about a shower?” Bruce asked, pulling his lips back out of reach but keeping Clark pinned against the door.

Clark cocked his head. “I took one at Lois’ before I headed back here…” Bruce growled a little, and Clark snorted at the implied jealousy.

“She’s my best friend,” he reproved. “Besides, she lives fifteen minutes from where the fire was at and being near a burning building left a certain effluvium that I didn’t want to inflict on my fellow commuters. But I’m not opposed to washing again, if shower sex is something you were looking forward to?”

“Effluvium is a word you wish got used more often…” Bruce laughed and kissed him again.

“Well, if you will date a writer…”

They made out for a few more minutes, and Clark’s tie was off and his collar undone, before Bruce dragged his head back again. “It was more the things that would be possible after the shower that I was excited about…”

It took Clark’s addled mind a second to get his point. “Oh! Yeah, I did that, too; I assumed it’d be a good idea, from your texts… so that should save some time.”

“You’re brilliant,” Bruce praised, and began unbuttoning Clark’s shirt. Clark tried to return the favor, sliding his hands under Bruce’s sweater, but Bruce shook his head and pinned Clark’s hands to the door above his head in a brutally tight grip. Clark grinned inwardly even as his spine went weak at the display of dominance. He knew at this point that Bruce wasn’t going to let Clark see him naked without something to disguise his scars, and he didn’t mind using that fact to be a bit of a brat at times. Once Bruce was sure Clark would stay where he wanted him, he transferred both of his wrists into a lighter, one-handed hold and kissed him again, while lowering his other hand to continue undoing Clark’s shirt. Clark went limp under Bruce’s power, his head swimming with desire.

Bruce finished with Clark’s shirt and went on to unfasten his pants. Having then loosened all of Clark’s clothes as possible in their current position, he stepped back and lowered Clark’s legs back to the ground.

“Be good and strip down for me,” Bruce said, and let go of Clark’s wrists. Clark wasted no time—he had learned quickly that when Bruce said “strip” he meant “get naked as fast as humanly possible,” not “put on a show.” He let his unbuttoned shirt and jacket fall silently to the floor, then scrambled to shed the rest of his clothes while Bruce turned and walked back to the couch. As Bruce sat down, enjoying the view, Clark stumbled a little trying to follow him and toe off his shoes at the same time, and Bruce laughed out loud. Clark blushed in embarrassment, but then he was naked and straddling Bruce’s lap, and nothing else mattered. They rocked together, Bruce’s clothing rubbing erotically against Clark’s naked skin.

“So,” Bruce said, running a hand up Clark’s spine, “I have a couple presents for you.” He reached over and grabbed two book-sized rectangular boxes tastefully wrapped in silver and black stripes from the floor next to the couch: one thin, like a magazine and the other thicker, like a dictionary. Clark smiled greedily and held out his hands for them. Over the past couple months, he’d learned to gracefully accept Bruce’s desire to spoil him.

He unwrapped the first, thin box and gasped at what he found inside. Nestled into a black velvet backing were four delicate circles of stainless steel, sized for wrist and ankle, each with a small O-ring attached. Two silver keys on chains glittered at the top of the display. Clark had occasionally admired jewelry like this at sex shops and websites, but these were the best-made he’d ever seen. The bands were about a centimeter wide and just a couple millimeters thick, the edges slightly rounded. With the O-rings removed, they would pass for normal jewelry to most observers. However, they would clearly stand up to a high amount of struggle—likely nearly as much as a pair of standard police handcuffs—although putting any significant weight on them would be asking for skin lacerations. He picked one wristband up and examined it more closely. The O-rings could be twisted forty-five degrees and then pulled to the side and off, a motion that would be possible to do even while wearing them, but unlikely to trigger by accident. The locking mechanism was cleverly designed to look like a normal clasp, with an extra inch-long metal band that fit snugly over the core ring and could slide to expose or hide the keyhole and O-ring slot. Clark bit his lip, looking up at Bruce with wondering eyes. This was the kind of gift that a Dom would give a much-cherished sub in a committed relationship, although he did note that the last item one might expect to see in such a set, a matching collar, was not present.

“I love them,” Clark whispered. “Thank you.” He leaned down and kissed Bruce tenderly, half-expecting to be put off with a crude joke about how fun the jewelry would be to play with, a dismissal of any deeper meaning. Instead, Bruce kissed him back passionately, and Clark’s heart soared.

After a few minutes, Bruce toppled Clark off his lap and onto the couch beside him. He removed the remaining wristband out of its case, unlocked it, and reached for Clark’s arm. Clark held out both wrists eagerly, the first bracelet still in his hand, and Bruce carefully locked both bands on. When he was done, he pushed Clark back to lie on the couch cushions and pulled Clark’s legs into his lap. Clark admired the wristbands quietly while Bruce locked the cuffs around his ankles. They had been made exactly to his measure, with just a small allowance between skin and metal for comfort. Given how flat they were, he was pretty sure they would be invisible under suit cuffs, and hard to see even under thinner material. He could wear these almost all the time, if he wanted… although they would definitely show up under the skintight Superman outfit, he realized with a pang of disappointment.

All bound up, he tried to pull Bruce on top of him, but Bruce resisted with a smile. “Don’t forget your other present,” he said, retrieving the box from where it had gotten knocked, forgotten indeed, onto the floor. Clark unwrapped it with a sheepish grin. Less sentimental but just as promising in its own way, this box held an unpackaged set of six black silicone plugs, varying in size and shape from a small almond shape to a large, realistically shaped cock. Accompanying them was a small bullet vibe that could slip inside any of the toys, a helpful bottle of lube, and a Bluetooth-enabled remote control.

“I thought you could wear one tonight,” Bruce said. “Let me torture you a little to keep us from getting bored to death by all the idle chit-chat.”

Clark nodded eagerly, arousal pinging through him. As he’d told Bruce earlier, it had been quite a while since he had engaged in any such play, so he thoughtfully selected one of the smallest, a rounded taper with a swollen part near the base and a spiral ridge running down its length. Bruce nodded, inserted the vibe into the chosen toy, and boxed the rest back up. He manhandled Clark into position: lying face-down horizontally on the couch, head buried in the cushions and bottom squarely planted, cheeks up, in Bruce’s lap.

Clark alternately panted, squealed, and groaned, clenching his fists in his hair, as Bruce prepared him ever so slowly, alternating the exploratory fingering with warming spanks. Finally, he screwed in the well-lubed plug as Clark quivered beneath his hands. Once it was done, Clark clenched experimentally and nodded in approval. The toy provided a delightful pressure and feeling of fullness but wasn’t overly intrusive; he could easily see himself forgetting that it was there after standing or sitting for a while; until, of course, Bruce turned the vibe on. He shivered again at the thought.

He half expected Bruce to try it out immediately, but instead, Bruce urged him out of his lap and grabbed their playbox from under the coffee table. Bruce led him over to the glass sliding door next to the fireplace, which opened onto the balcony; Clark followed a little reluctantly, not sure what exactly Bruce had in mind and, mindful of his nudity, not wild about the idea of putting on a show for the neighborhood (even if there wasn’t likely to be anyone in position to see them, fourteen floors up).

Bruce threw the curtains wide, letting the sunlight stream onto his face. Clark jumped aside. Bruce glanced back at him, amused.

“I had some unique specifications when I had the curtains installed,” Bruce informed him. “A reinforced steel rod bracketed into the wall and ceiling; it can hold up to five hundred pounds.” He demonstrated by doing a quick chin-up, lifting his legs off the floor.

“Um,” Clark stalled. “That’s great, but aren’t you worried about getting spied on? There are lots of stories about people sitting in Gotham apartments with binoculars.”

“Not particularly,” Bruce said, advancing on Clark and giving him a teasing kiss. “In fact, I rather like the idea of someone happening to cast an eye on us and getting more than they planned for—see me claim you, take you, own you…”

Well, and part of Clark quite liked that idea as well, his nether region informed him. But most of him was not at all okay with the prospect, and he resisted strenuously when Bruce tried to drag him forward.

“Yellow,” he said, reluctantly. Bruce released him instantly and stepped back.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said penitently. “That was out of line. I should have explained first. The windows and doors are treated—tinted glass. No one can see anything through them, I promise. Do you need to take a break, or stop completely?”

“No,” Clark said, relaxing in relief. “I don’t mind a little exhibition play as long as it’s not _actually_ going to end up in the papers. But yes; explain and _ask_ first, next time!” 

“Sorry,” Bruce said again, drawing him forward. Clark went willingly this time and let Bruce position him in front of the glass door, facing outward, arms stretched above his head, hands spread wide and tightly gripping the rod. Bruce grabbed some adjustable straps with snap hooks from the playbox and used them to connect Clark’s wristbands to either end of the curtain rod where it was bracketed into the wall. Then he pushed Clark’s legs wide, until Clark had to lift himself up on his toes to keep his hands securely on the rod.

“Okay?” Bruce checked in. Clark nodded. Bruce used some additional straps to fasten Clark’s ankle bands to strips of metal set discretely into the floor near the door frame, forcing his legs to stay spread wide. Clark began breathing harder as the tension of the position set in; he was splayed just centimeters from the cold glass of the door, forced to support most of his weight on his arms. He could take the pressure off them at any time by loosening his grip or narrowing his stance, but the moment he got even a little out of position, the steel bands would begin cutting uncomfortably into his wrists and ankles. Looking through the door at the cityscape spread before him, he could see cars moving around on the streets far below and a few people on the balconies of the surrounding buildings. He could easily imagine them happening to look the right way and watch what was being done to him. Thanks to Bruce’s assurance, the thought added a pleasant smoky tang to his arousal rather than reigniting his earlier panic.

He heard rustling from Bruce’s direction; he craned his neck, but due to his bound arms could see only a few degrees behind him on either side. Thus, it was a surprise when Bruce, now seemingly completely naked, embraced him from behind. Bruce’s arms came up to caress him, his powerful chest and thighs bracketing Clark’s body, and his erect dick nudged into the space between Clark’s thighs. Clark hummed in pleasure, letting his head fall back to rest on Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce kissed and sucked at the most sensitive spot on the back ridge of Clark’s neck, his hands coming down to stroke between Clark’s legs. Clark hissed as Bruce rapidly amped up the sensual assault on all fronts, teeth digging into Clark’s neck, fingers rubbing him more quickly, and his other hand dipping inside him. It was hard to tell time while lost in a lustful fog, but Clark didn’t think it more than a couple minutes before he came with a surprised moan. It was a perfectly satisfactory orgasm, but Bruce usually preferred to tease Clark, to wait until he was shaking with need before letting him climax. After all that prep work and buildup, Clark felt a trifle disappointed as Bruce stepped back and he waited expectantly to be released.

Instead he let out a near-shriek and almost let go of the rod as vibrations shot up from his ass, saturating his nerves to an almost unbearable extent. His knees buckled, and he had to bear his full weight on his arms for a second until he was able to get his toes underneath him again.

“Oh no…” he moaned, as Bruce’s full dastardly plan started to become clear.

“Oh, yes,” Bruce taunted. And then, proving just how evil he really was, a line of fire landed diagonally across Clark’s back. He bit back a scream as he recognized his favorite whip from the variety of impact toys they’d played with in the preceding weeks.

Bruce came back up behind him again, pressing his chest into the cold window, the metal bands and hooks rattling as he was pushed forward.

“Stop holding back,” Bruce whispered, hot breath against his ear. He grabbed a fistful of Clark’s hair and pulled his head back, mouthing again at his neck, while Bruce’s other hand reached down to increase Clark’s overstimulation. Clark groaned in protest, trying to wriggle away, but getting nowhere. 

“Everyone thinks you’re this open book, because you show so much vulnerability, talk so freely, overshare,” Bruce continued hoarsely. “I think you believe it yourself, sometimes. But it’s all about what you choose to let people see. You hold the things you’re afraid of, uncomfortable with, back. You hide your pain, your anger, your desires.”

“Bruce, please.” Clark whimpered, overwhelmed. The vibe and manual stimulation were forcing him all too quickly toward another orgasm.

“You don’t have to hide with me,” Bruce said in that same hushed, intent tone. “Don’t have to be in control. Don’t hold yourself back. Let it out. Show me who you really are.”

Wrenching Clark’s head back further, Bruce kissed him, a deep, messy tongue wrestle that Clark felt down to his toes, which were aching by now from holding him up. Clark wrestled with himself. He knew Bruce was speaking in relation to their dynamic, wanting Clark to get to that deep, still place where he lost all care for societal constraints, where his ego stopped controlling his id and he was able to only _feel_. But the way Bruce had accidentally phrased himself made Clark desperately want to give everything up, admit to Bruce who and what he was. Still afraid of Bruce’s probable reaction, he determinedly pushed the urge back down. 

“You know what I want,” Bruce said, stepping back. In his confusion, Clark felt the loss of the warmth and weight against his back like a blow, and he sagged back in his binds, letting out a high-pitched whine. The whip fell across Clark’s back again, making him yelp in pain. “This ends as soon as you give it to me.”

That last, of course, just built up Clark’s inner reluctance and served to prolong their session, as Bruce had surely intended—the harder it was for Clark to submit, the deeper and more intense the experience once he did. Bruce skillfully alternated whip lashes, bites, and the occasional hard spank with strokes, kisses, and fingering, keeping the vibe going continuously but varying its intensity. Clark came several times in painfully quick succession until, finally, reduced to an utterly exhausted, quivering pile of sensation, he lost hold of his last inhibitions. Perhaps fortunately, he couldn't remember his own name by that point, so no secrets fell from his mouth. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he screamed out in agony and pleasure at full volume, holding nothing back.

As soon as the first tears began to fall, Bruce was behind him, the vibe finally, mercifully, shutting off. Before Clark’s scream had completely died away, Bruce had wrapped one hand snugly around his throat, not truly constricting his breathing but applying a deep, enervating pressure and forcing his head upright. Clark’s strained arm muscles, shaking with fatigue, eased as Bruce held up his body weight from behind and slid a leg between Clark’s thighs for him to rest on. Clark whimpered as Bruce’s other hand slipped back between his legs, applying a ghostly, muffled pressure through some kind of fabric.

“Can’t.” Clark wheezed, tears still falling, leaning back gratefully into Bruce’s support. The steel bands began to cut into his wrists as he relaxed his grip on the curtain rod, reminding him of his helplessness. “Please, no… I _can’t_.”

“Yes, you can,” Bruce assured him, hand moving in almost imperceptible circles. “One more time, baby, for me. Let it all out… that’s right, let go.”

He kissed Clark’s neck again, and, as Clark’s breath began to speed up in spite of himself, Bruce bit down one more time over the light marks already blanketing his skin. That last stab of pain provided the final impetus to help Clark reach the summit and hurtle headlong over the cliff, and he sobbed as the sweet, wrenching pleasure of the fall made every cell of his body clench and sing out in bliss.

Bruce supported Clark through his shaking climax, then quickly released the snap hooks and lowered them both to the ground. He wrapped Clark in a huge, fluffy towel and cradled him in his lap, petting and stroking him while whispering nonsense words of praise and encouragement.

Clark cried for a while in an excess of physical and emotional sensation, burying his head between Bruce’s neck and shoulder—which was again covered by that same black sweater, he was disappointed to note, although it did make for a more absorbent surface. As his tears began to taper off, Bruce brought a plastic bottle of Gatorade to his lips, and he drank greedily.

“Now, I think, you are going to need that second shower,” Bruce said after several minutes of quiet comfort.

“Oh, god,” Clark said, twisting in Bruce’s hold as realization struck. “You haven’t come yet! I can—”

He broke off as Bruce started laughing incredulously. Bruce pulled Clark into a tighter embrace, kissing him soundly and stroking his sweat-slick hair out of his eyes.

“I did, actually,” Bruce said finally. “All over you, in fact, between your second and third times. Not that I couldn’t go again right now if you were up for it—you’re so fucking hot—but I wouldn’t be paying attention to that with you in this state even if I hadn’t come at all, yet.”

“Oh,” Clark blushed and reburied his head. Now that Bruce mentioned it, he could feel a certain itchy tightness on his backside, along with the hot soreness from the whip. As he went over his recollection of the scene, however, he could not find any retention of the event, only a sea of pleasure and pain and desperation—and the deep trust and love he had felt for Bruce throughout, coloring every sense-memory in vibrant shades of emotion.

He was so _utterly_ screwed.

And yet… Bruce was looking at him with wide, wondering eyes—cradling him in his arms like something incalculably precious, showering him with featherlight kisses, and whispering quiet endearments into his hair and forehead. He supported him into the bathroom and slowly washed him under a gentle, misting spray, lathering every muscle and curve with loving strokes.

Surely Selina and Lois were right? This couldn’t be just a business transaction to Bruce any longer. _Surely_ , when the time came to say goodbye, Bruce would balk, he would let Clark in, and then, perhaps, Clark might reveal himself without utterly ruining this thing between them, which had come to mean so very much in so short a time.

* * *

They were, in fact, _very_ fashionably late to the gala. Fortunately, no one was going to openly fault the museum’s biggest donor. Clark was still hovering on the upper end of subspace, and the occasional slide of metal against his wrists and ankles, catch of fabric against the welts on his back and neck, and press of the plug still deep within him served to keep him there. Thankfully, Bruce did not make good on his threat to turn the vibe on while they were in public, seeming content to drink in Clark’s clinginess and worshipful glances. For his own part, Bruce was entirely wrapped up in his sub as they waltzed through the event, keeping a hand on him at all times and serving him sips of wine and nibbles of expensive hors d’oeuvres from his own glass and plate. Which was, perhaps, why it all went so bad, so fast.

The first they knew of trouble was a crash of glass from the other side of the room. They looked up in startlement at the noise, Clark expecting to see an embarrassed server standing over a pile of broken glasses and preparing himself to quash as much of the resulting mockery as possible. Instead, the shattering sound was followed by screams and thuds as the people closer to the disturbance panicked and hit the floor. Bruce, his Gothamite instincts reacting faster than Clark’s seldom-used mortal reflexes, quickly pulled him down and shoved him under a table. Peeking out from under the white tablecloth, Clark had to blink to be sure he wasn’t on red kryptonite again.

“Who… what…?”

“Scarface,” Bruce cursed.

“How the hell did he get people to call him that?” Clark asked, confused. “He’s just… an ordinary middle-aged guy with a creepy doll? I mean, not that that isn’t good commentary on how bureaucrats are the real evil in the world, but…”

“What?” Bruce asked, confused in turn. “Oh. No, Scarface is the dummy. The guy is called the Ventriloquist.”

“Fucking Gotham…” Clark groaned.

While this whispered interlude was going on, the… dummy… was giving what seemed like a fairly standard villain’s speech about how all the rich and famous guests were going to be held hostage until the mayor turned over all the gold in Gotham National Bank.

“Oh yeah, like that’s gonna happen,” Clark muttered disgustedly.

“I have a feeling this is all a distraction while whatever team they’ve put together rob _this_ place,” Bruce muttered. “Unless he’s gone really downhill since his time in Arkham. Scarface and the Ventriloquist used to be quite talented thieves.”

“What’s the plan?” Clark asked, falling unconsciously into their usual battlefield routine.

“Regardless of what his real goal is, if he’s calling for hostages, he’ll start looking for me in a moment—I’m the richest and most famous guest here, and I attend this event every year. I’ll reveal myself and create a distraction, you run out the back and call the cops.”

Clark nodded. He had no doubt that all Bruce wanted was to get his presumably vulnerable lover to safety while he took care of business, and normally Clark would never have countenanced such a plan. But since what he really needed was to get out of Bruce’s eyesight as quickly as possible so both of them could change into their respective alter egos, Bruce’s approach sounded fine to him. He turned, orienting himself, then ducked out from under the tablecloth and began to scuttle in a half-crouch toward the door.

What followed would have been a comedy of errors if it hadn’t hurt so much. Bruce began moving in the opposite direction—no doubt going for the Batsuit, and what did he do, find a hiding place for it in every building where he planned to spend a few hours? Clark, distracted by trying to watch the villain(s) _and_ Bruce _and_ find his way out all at the same time—which was, to be fair, something he could have normally done easily, with his powers—fell headlong over another fleeing guest and smashed into another table laden with dishes. The resulting crash brought Scarface and the Ventriloquist running toward them. Struggling to get up from the floor, Clark cursed himself for not putting the damn ring away _before_ heading for the door. He had just barely pushed himself to his knees and was about to stand, groping in his pocket for the ring box—behind the approaching villain, he saw Bruce with a half-horrified, half-exasperated expression that he recognized from every battle where Superman had done something particularly stupid—when the museum’s security guards ran in and the world went crazy.

Clark felt a heavy impact at his side and suddenly he was lying on his back, unsure who or what had knocked him over. Then he must have grayed out for a second _,_ because the next thing he knew, Bruce was leaning over him, leaning _on_ him, in fact, and he opened his mouth to tell Bruce that he was too heavy, the place he was putting all his weight on hurt like a bitch, when time seemed to catch up all of a sudden and he registered how hot and achey the pain in his shoulder was, and the smell of blood.

He looked down. Yup, that was blood. That was… quite a lot of blood.

“Did I get shot by a fucking _puppet_?” he asked, horrified.

“A rent-a-cop with bad aim, actually.” Bruce said, his voice drawn and strained. Clark looked back up at his lover’s paper-white face. He hated everything that had ever made Bruce look that anguished, and he put up a hand to comfort him, only to end up spasming his fist in Bruce’s shirt as a new wave of pain rippled through his body.

“It’s okay, love,” Bruce said in a low, soothing voice. “It’s a through and through, not enough blood to have hit anything vital. You’ll be fine. I’m just going to find someone to stay with you…”

Clark closed his eyes. For a moment, he felt so tempted to just do as he was told. Lie back, do nothing, let someone else take responsibility for once…

But realistically, it was all over the second that bullet had touched his skin. The world could not afford for Superman to go on hiatus for the amount of time it would take for him to heal naturally from a bullet going through his body. And while Clark could fake having an injury for the benefit of his friends and coworkers, Bruce would damn well want an explanation for a gunshot wound disappearing from his lover’s skin.

Clark reached down into his jacket pocket—thank goodness, he wore the ring on his right middle finger, and the bullet had gone through just below his left clavicle. It took a little fumbling, but he got the little lead box he kept there open with one hand, the ring off his finger, and the box closed with the ring inside. Immediately, he felt the pain drain away and his strength return. The closing bullet wound itched, a little. He reached up and cupped Bruce’s face as his lover looked around for someone to help. Fortunately for Clark, the villains and pursuing security had moved off, and the other attendees had escaped or were still hiding.

“Clark, it’s—” Bruce started to say, then stopped, his brow creasing, when he realized Clark was sitting up.

“I’m so sorry,” Clark said, and kissed him.

And then he ran away at full super speed, refusing to look back.

Despite having to make several trips, it took Clark barely ten minutes altogether to get into his uniform (discarded the torn and bloody suit he’d been wearing, and damn it, he’d liked that one), gather up the Ventriloquist’s gang (fleeing with what looked like several valuable paintings and sculptures), and return the criminals and their loot to the museum. Nonetheless, as he dropped off and tied up the last one, he was unsurprised to find a completely suited Batman exiting the building with a bound and babbling Ventriloquist. The small splinters of wood scattered on the puppeteer’s clothing spoke volumes about Scarface’s fate and the Dark Knight’s temper.

Batman’s shoulders stiffened as he saw his teammate. When he had long ago worked lead fibers into his cowl and suit to prevent Superman from spying on him, he had not been able to incorporate the metal into the white lenses that covered his eyes, and Clark had gotten used to reading the minute expressions in his eyes. He did so now and recoiled. Bruce’s eyes were flat and hateful; full of anger, wariness, and contempt.

As Clark opened his mouth—to say what, he had no idea—several GCPD squad cars pulled up behind them.

“I’ll leave you to deal with that,” Batman growled, and threw the Ventriloquist headlong down the museum steps.

It only took Clark a few seconds to catch the bound villain before he could break his neck and return him to stable footing, but it didn’t matter. By the time he turned back to face the museum entrance, Batman was gone.

As Clark turned back to deal with the police, slowly coming down from his adrenaline rush, he felt something weird in the seat of his uniform. Startled, he half-turned, rising into the air, before he realized what it had to be. He held back a slightly hysterical sound: he didn’t know whether it would have been a laugh or a sob.

At some point, without realizing it, he’d clenched up and, with his super-strength at full power, he’d pulverized the plug and vibe that Bruce had given him into smithereens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex acts: Spanking, fingering, anal plugs, vibes, bondage, exhibition play, impact play, forced orgasms.
> 
> [Back to top](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701693/chapters/58194469#main)
> 
> For those who are interested in writing mechanics—the sex part of this chapter was originally written as taking place after Clark and Bruce attended the Gray Ghost premiere, but their play got significantly harder than I'd intended, thanks in large part to having just read [Gement's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gement/pseuds/Gement) ridiculously hot [Kryptonite Collar series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656628)—so I rewrote it to take place after our boys had been together a bit longer.


	14. Confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for use of a sex work slur.  
> 

Clark went to Lois’ apartment after talking to the cops and helping with clean up. He took a long shower, changed into some of the clothes he’d left there, and took the ferry back to Gotham.

He was aware that he was stalling, of course, but—it was necessary. He wasn’t going to try and avoid Bruce forever, but he needed some time to put himself back together, to recover from seeing the man he loved looking at him that way, like something unknown and possibly dangerous. A snake poised in the grass that might or might not be venomous.

And yeah, Clark knew he was being a cliché, and he was upset enough that he didn’t care.

Besides, Bruce probably wouldn’t be there now, anyway—if he planned on going back at all. Surely Bruce, too, would want time to compose himself, to think things through. Despite all of Clark’s dawdling, he waved wearily to the doorman and punched in his keypad code at the Gotham apartment barely four hours after Batman had left him at the museum, still in the wee hours of the night. Surely Bruce would have gone out on patrol and then headed back to the Cave to lick his wounds and plan his strategy.

And yet when Clark walked in the door, Bruce was sitting there in the armchair before the fireplace, in an old black sweatshirt and unfashionable jeans such as Bruce Wayne would never dream of wearing, staring into the fire, absent-mindedly petting the cat in his lap, and nursing a glass of scotch. Clark stood in the doorway for a minute, taking deep breaths, forcing his racing heart to calm. Gertrude jumped off of Bruce and ran up to Clark, twining around his legs and mewing like she’d never been stroked in her life, and he distracted himself for a minute with satisfying her demands, closing and locking the door, and hanging up his jacket, before he circled around to stand penitently before his lover.

“Hey.”

Bruce glanced up at him. “Not like that,” he ordered curtly before looking back down at his drink. “Put on the suit.”

“I—what?”

“I’ve had enough of this charade,” Bruce bit out. “I’m not having this conversation with you dressed like ‘Clark Kent.’” He said the name with a bitter, sarcastic lilt that hurt Clark’s heart. “I don’t want to talk to the guy I’ve been fucking for the past two months—I need to deal with the person who’s been screwing _me_.”

Well. That was clear enough. Clark came close to turning around and walking out the door without another word. Did Bruce actually think—

But of course, he did, Clark realized. For Bruce, the feckless civilian was the costume, the Dark Knight the reality. He truly didn’t understand that Clark Kent was far more real than Superman could ever be. Clark opened his mouth to explain, but was forestalled as Bruce set his glass down with a clink and rose to his feet in precise, economic motions.

“You can change, or you can pack your things and get out,” Bruce said icily. “It’s all the same to me.”

Clark took a deep breath. Again, part of him wanted to respond with hurt, angry words and then walk away. But a little flame of hope kept him in place—as long as Bruce was willing to talk, Clark couldn’t give up on him. He stripped—quickly and simply, not putting on a show, but without superspeed—pulled the folded El sigil out of his wallet, and slapped it on his chest. The Kryptonian uniform tesseracted out, covering him up in seconds. Bruce’s heart rate increased rapidly, but he covered it well, picking up and taking a slow sip from his glass while giving Clark a lingering onceover.

“You look different,” he commented. “You’re bulkier… your jaw is sharper… and I think even your voice is different?”

“Yeah,” Clark agreed. “Kryptonian distortion tech, built into the suit.”

Bruce pursed his lips. “So, what you’re like out of the suit…?”

“Is real,” Clark agreed eagerly, glad to have a chance to explain this after all. “What you see when I wear the suit is fake. No huge changes, just little differences, enough to keep people from recognizing me. Other than the eyes—I can’t disguise them without interfering with my vision. That’s why I wear glasses when I’m myself.”

Bruce nodded curtly. “You didn’t have powers when we were together,” he continued. He phrased it like a statement, but Clark answered anyway.

“No, I didn’t.” Bruce relaxed infinitesimally at that response, and Clark couldn’t help but ponder that reaction. Had Bruce been worried that Clark could have somehow put on a good enough act to fool him, counterfeiting the reactions of a mortal body? Or was he so genuinely frightened of Clark’s powers that the idea that he had been so vulnerable with them present terrified him even in retrospect?

“How?” came the next, expected question. Clark answered readily, explaining about the ring. Bruce had a store of green kryptonite already; knowing about the blue could hardly make that situation worse. Bruce accepted his explanation with another calm nod, and Clark felt his hope rising, just a bit. Maybe they would be able to weather this after all. But his heart plummeted back down with the next question.

“How long have you known my identity?”

Almost, _almost_ Clark prevaricated. He hadn’t actually seen Bruce change into Batman tonight—if he pretended not to know what Bruce was talking about… well, no. He didn’t kid himself he could play that scenario convincingly. But he _could_ claim that he hadn’t figured it out until after becoming Bruce’s companion, and that he’d then understandably hesitated to come clean. Surely that wouldn’t be as bad as… But as good of an intuitive investigator as Bruce was, his true gift as a detective was in his indefatigable pursuit of the truth once he’d sniffed out the existence of a lie. The fact that he knew enough to pose the question meant that, inevitably, he’d find out the truth. And maybe, too, Clark had had enough of the charade himself. Surely being able to be honest, truly himself, with his lover wasn’t too much to ask out of life?

“I peeked inside your cowl when I was investigating Batman, before we met,” Clark admitted, looking down at the carpet, afraid to see Bruce’s reaction—practically shuffling his feet, he scolded himself. “Before you added the lead.”

There was silence. After a long pause, Clark finally nerved up his courage and looked up. Bruce had closed his eyes, half-turned away now to face the windows, and was pressing his cold liquor glass against his forehead.

“I—I thought about telling you so many times,” Clark tried to explain. “But… at first, you already thought I was a threat, I didn’t want to seem like _more_ of one. And then we were forming the League together, I needed you to trust me. And then it just—there was never a good time…” Clark ground to a halt, unable to think of anything else to say that wouldn’t just make it worse. There was a long, unbearable silence.

“ _Why?”_ Bruce demanded, finally, turning back toward Clark. “I don’t… what could you have possibly hoped to gain from doing this that would make it worth—what could you _learn_ from this that you couldn’t just find out with your powers?”

Clark’s forehead creased in consternation. “Bruce, that’s not… I didn’t want…” He rubbed his eyes and started over. “I was honest with you about everything I could be, about everything other than my identity, and the fact that I knew yours. The reasons I gave you when we started this, those were why I did it.”

Bruce looked at him expressionlessly. “To help your mother and save your farm. That’s what you expect me to believe?”

“I—yes!” Clark cried. _And because I wanted you,_ he thought, but could not bring himself to say in the face of Bruce’s stony anger. “It’s the truth, why is that hard to believe?”

“You _knew_ who I was,” Bruce reminded him. “Why wouldn’t you just come to me as Superman and ask for help? I’ve poured millions of dollars into the League in the past year and a half, why would I balk at a measly plot of land in Kansas?”

Now it was Clark’s turn to deliver an unbelieving stare. “You’re asking me why I didn’t come to you, a man who made no bones about the fact that he _still_ didn’t trust me, and say ‘Oh hey, so, I happen to know your most closely guarded secret, and by the way, a couple hundred thousand dollars surely wouldn’t come amiss?’” Bruce snorted dismissively, and Clark’s temper rose.

“And by the way,” he continued defensively, “that kind of money might be nothing to _you_ , but for most people, it would be a gamechanger. I’ve lived on the edge of poverty all my life, I’m not _ashamed_ of doing what I could to provide security for me and my mother.”

Bruce glared at him, his mouth set in a flat line. “Well. You’ve gotten what you wanted, then. No need to keep whoring yourself out. Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“ _Fine,”_ Clark hissed, his voice cracking, infuriated at the slur and heartbroken at the dismissal. “You can send my severance payment to Lois’ apartment.”

Bruce spun and threw his drink at the fireplace with a crash, shards of glass tinging merrily as they fell onto the brick mantle. “You don’t get a severance payment if you quit in the first three months,” he reminded Clark, turning back toward him threateningly.

“ _I’m_ not calling it quits!” Clark spit out, clenching his fists. They both panted in rage for a moment, staring each other down.

“You’re _not_ calling it quits.” Bruce repeated slowly.

“ _You_ just ordered me to leave,” Clark yelled. “I never said I was out.”

Bruce nodded slowly. “You’re right, of course,” he said, and smiled. Clark blinked, taken aback. “Fine, then,” Bruce continued silkily. “Kneel.”

“I— _what_?”

“If you’re not quitting,” Bruce sneered patronizingly, “then you do what I say, when I say it. That’s what you’re getting paid for, remember?” He stalked closer, and the next word came out in pure, guttural Batman voice. “ _Kneel._ ”

Bruce, clearly sure he now had the upper hand, glared into Clark’s eyes—probably waiting for him to fold and fly out, Clark figured, to leave Bruce to his self-righteous tower of isolation. But Clark just stood there, unable to speak or look away. Bruce’s aura of smug certitude slowly faded. Clark took one small step forward, then another, until he was standing just inches in front of Bruce. Then he quietly dropped to his knees. Bruce gasped like he’d been punched in the gut. The air between them changed, becoming electric.

“Bruce,” Clark blurted out, looking up into Bruce’s white face. “I didn’t—it wasn’t just about the money, I _wanted_ —”

“Shhhhh,” Bruce said, putting his fingers on Clark’s lips. Clark, as unable as ever to resist his touch, unabashedly rubbed his face against Bruce’s hand like a cat. “I know, baby, I’m sorry,” Bruce said, stroking Clark’s head with both hands now. Clark’s tense muscles relaxed all at once and he leaned against Bruce’s legs, tears of relief springing to his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean it,” Bruce whispered brokenly. “My pride was hurt, that’s all. I didn’t want to believe I could have read you that badly, missed so much.” Clark shook his head, burying his face in Bruce’s jeans, unable to explain how Bruce hadn’t read him wrong at all, Bruce knew him so well… they clung together for long, precious moments, Clark shaking at how close he’d come to losing this.

“You lied to me, that day on the Watchtower,” Bruce said suddenly, and Clark tensed up again apprehensively, but Bruce just continued to stroke his face and neck, pressing his fingers into Clark’s skin over and over again. “You could never have sex with someone like this, not unless they were very dumb, or drunk, or both. Your skin… it’s soft to the touch, but I can only push in so far before it just—stops. Like suede over steel.”

“Yeah,” Clark admitted, his voice muffled against Bruce’s legs, feeling absurdly fragile for an invulnerable being. “I can put the ring on…”

“No, don’t,” Bruce answered absently. “Have you ever had sex without it? With Lois? She knows who you are, right?”

Clark shook his head, then nodded. “Yes, she knows, but we didn’t. I was afraid of hurting her…”

“You won’t hurt me,” Bruce assured him. Clark dared a look upward, and swayed unsteadily at the familiar black, intense look in Bruce’s eyes. Bruce lowered a hand from Clark’s head to pat the El shield on his uniform. “How does this work?”

“Touch it and think about me naked,” Clark said. Bruce raised an eyebrow, but went ahead and traced the sigil again. Clark hurriedly nudged the mental connection between himself and the suit, projecting his complete trust in Bruce. The uniform melted away and Bruce hissed.

“Please tell me that not anyone can do that,” he commented, hands wandering around Clark’s now bare shoulders and chest.

“I had to grant you access,” Clark assured him.

“Yeah, you did,” Bruce leered, and Clark looked up, scandalized.

“Bruce!”

“Hey, not all of Brucie is a mask,” Bruce laughed. He unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans with a quick, smooth jerk and Clark snuffled happily forward at the familiar musk. “Eager, are we?”

Clark smirked, then pursed his lips and sucked Bruce in. Bruce shouted and clutched at Clark’s shoulders as Clark smoothly and easily swallowed him down, coming to a halt only with his nose pressed snuggly into Bruce’s bushy pubis. Bruce recovered quickly, hands coming back up to cradle Clark’s head, but groaned as Clark used his lips and cheeks to massage and suck despite the dick deep in his throat.

Clark suckled Bruce contentedly, the pressure on all sides of his head and familiar scent filling him with euphoria. The sensory input was so much stronger with his powers, yet he was in no danger of becoming overstimulated like usual and was undisturbed by any gag reflect or need to breathe. He could hear the blood rushing to Bruce’s groin, smell each breath as it left Bruce’s laboring lungs, see the sperm swimming around in Bruce’s balls, and it all filled Clark with a deep, quiet satisfaction.

“Such a good boy for me,” Bruce gasped. “Oh, Jesus, stop; you’re going to make me come.”

Clark resisted a little as Bruce pushed him away, not seeing what exactly was wrong with that idea, but obeyed and pulled off with a pop as Bruce slapped the side of his head reprovingly.

“Something else I want to try,” Bruce explained, and tugged Clark’s arms upward. 

Clark stood and then gasped in surprise as Bruce used his upward momentum and a ducked head against his chest to manhandle him into a fireman carry. Belatedly, he made himself lighter, pushing gently against Earth’s gravity as Bruce wove their way toward the bedroom. Bruce laughed as he felt the weight over his shoulder lift and gave Clark a rewarding slap on the ass.

Bruce threw Clark down on the bed and began stripping. Clark clicked the bedside light on and watched avidly as Bruce revealed his bare, naked torso to him under a bright, clear light for the first time. _That_ scar was clearly a bullet wound, and that was a knife but… were those ones _claw marks?_ What the hell could scratch that deep? He realized that Bruce had come to a stop, looking down at his fascinated eyes with uncharacteristic uncertainty, and he scooted forward on the bed hurriedly, running his hands lightly over Bruce’s chest, kissing first this scar, and then that one, tonguing along the long grooves, sucking lightly at each puckered circle…

Bruce let out his breath in a rush and tilted Clark’s mouth up for a brief but deep kiss. “You’re so beautiful,” Clark said as soon as he had his mouth back. “I lo—” Bruce kissed him again, thrusting the words back into his mouth with his tongue and pushing Clark flat onto the bed. He laid his body full on Clark’s torso, and Clark spread his legs happily and wrapped them around Bruce’s waist, welcoming his lover’s weight that for once felt to him only like a light, comforting blanket.

Bruce knocked the pillows out of the way and lifted Clark’s wrists to the lower wooden slat of the headboard. “Keep those there,” he ordered shortly, then reached for the bedside table. Grabbing supplies, he suited and slicked himself up quickly and slid into Clark’s ass without further ado. Clark gasped at the sensation, clutching at the headboard—it wasn’t painful, nothing Bruce could do without kryptonite could hurt him physically, but Bruce was so deep and thick in his unstretched hole that it bordered on uncomfortable. At the same time, the sudden and unexpected fullness satisfied some unanswered question at the formerly empty core of his being; made him feel wanted and claimed, a visceral sense of belonging. The pressure sent sparks of pleasure up his spine.

“You can’t come with me inside you,” Bruce commanded, and Clark nodded in fervent agreement, concentrating hard on keeping his muscles relaxed to protect his lover. He cried out in pleasure as Bruce began to move.

“So—fucking—tight—” Bruce groaned blissfully, thrusting again and again, not letting up for a second, hammering Clark without mercy.

Bruce began stroking and fingering Clark in counterpoint to the dick still pounding him into the mattress, and Clark cried out in protest, feeling his pleasure spike.

“Are you going to come?” Bruce demanded, halting his movements. Clark tightened his grip on the headboard and felt the wood splinter a bit. Fortunately, the panic fought off a bit of his increasing arousal, and he shook his head.

“Good boy,” Bruce approved, resuming his thrusts on both fronts. Clark groaned and, afraid of crushing Bruce’s torso, uncrossed his legs and spread them up and wide instead. Bruce moaned, grabbed one of his ankles and pinned it to the bed next to his shoulder, and thrust even harder. Clark hummed happily.

“How is this… so good,” Bruce panted. “You’re always… so good.”

“Yessssss,” Clark hissed. “Just _take_ me.”

“You’re… mine…” Bruce grunted. “ _Mine_.”

“Yours,” Clark vowed, back arching and toes curling in reaction. Bruce pressed his forehead against Clark’s chest and started coming helplessly in spasmodic jerks. Clark savored the feeling and then laid his head back as Bruce collapsed on top of him.

“Can I move my hands now?” he asked after a moment.

“No,” came the muffled answer. “I still gotta make you come. In a bit. When I can move again.”

Clark blanched. Bruce, perhaps feeling Clark’s muscles tense, lifted his head groggily and peered into Clark’s eyes.

“It’s alright,” Bruce said gently, his eyes warm and soft. “You can let go, whenever you need to.”

“Okay,” Clark sighed. With a little difficulty, he released the tight grip he’d maintained around the headboard. Bruce thumped his head back down on Clark’s chest. Clark petted his lover’s head and shoulders, humming in contentment at the feel of Bruce’s naked, relaxed body on his, basking in the sunshine streaming in from the window as the sun slowly rose, feeling like everything was right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex acts include oral sex and anal sex with no prep.  
> [Back to top](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701693/chapters/58289905#main)  
>    
>   
> Later that evening (h/t [Gement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gement/pseuds/Gement)):  
> Bruce: You know, I feel like I would have caught on earlier, but I just genuinely never looked for something so underhanded and devious coming from you, the boy scout.  
> Clark: Hey, I checked with you on the ethics and you SAID. You SAID IT WAS OKAY!  
> Bruce: I ALSO said that I’m NOT a moral guide. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE MORAL GUIDE!  
> Clark: But… you were REALLY hot! And all… articulate!


	15. Epilogue I: Short and Sweet

Of course, that was not the end of that fight; in fact, Clark rather got the feeling that fifty years in the future, he would _still_ be getting grief from Bruce about his deception.

He was quite content for that to be the case, if it meant he and Bruce would still be together when they were old and gray (or when Bruce was, at least; but Clark adamantly refused to think about that just yet). Plus, the atonement was fun.

There was no one moment over the next few months when they became a “real” couple, nor could he pinpoint when he officially moved into the Manor. Bruce was still a little paranoid about the dangers of further affiliating their civilian identities, although he had to admit that Clark had pretty much let the cat out of the bag there. Or rather, that was the rather threadbare excuse that Bruce used for his reluctance—Clark, understanding the additional, unspoken reasons for Bruce’s anxiety, was patient with him. Fortunately, Clark didn’t have a problem speeding back and forth between the apartment and Bruce’s bedroom in the manor as needed.

So instead of having one big milestone marker, they had a series of small, intimate moments that Clark would always remember.

* * *

There was the late spring day when Alfred, apparently wearying of Bruce pretending that his bedroom at the manor was still a single occupancy, brought them a large tray of breakfast one Sunday when they were still lazing abed at noon. Clark rapidly wrapped the sheets around them both, although at least Alfred hadn’t interrupted anything other than some leisurely naked spooning. Clark determinedly ignored Bruce’s mirthful eyes—and even more steadfastly refused to acknowledge the intrigued leer that followed when Bruce noticed the bright red, mortified flush that washed over Clark’s chest.

Nose twitching at the inviting scent of bacon, Clark bashfully accepted the cup of coffee that Alfred offered him with a quiet “Master Clark.” He knew he didn’t appreciate all the nuances of that, or the long look that Bruce and Alfred shared—but he did know that they both had a gleam of moisture in their eyes as Alfred positioned the tray of food at the base of the bed and turned and left the room.

* * *

About three weeks after that—just enough time, Clark noticed with amusement, for Bruce to be able to act as if it _wasn’t_ in response to Alfred’s escalatory move—Bruce brought him formally through the front door of the manor for the first time and officially introduced him to Alfred and Dick as his lover (not, of course, that Bruce used that word—or any other. Fortunately, Dick was a smart kid).

“Hey Clark! Have you read the latest Gray Ghost?” he chattered, jumping up and down. “I put up the poster we got at Comic Con in my room—Bruce wanted it in the library, but I said since it was signed to _me,_ that I should get to put it where I can see it the most.”

“Yes, it was really good. And I think that’s fair,” Clark agreed with a laughing glance at Bruce. “If he wanted one for the library, he should have stood in the autograph line with us.” Bruce shot Clark a fulminating glare.

“Can we go to the Comic Con in Metropolis in October? I wanna do a cosplay!”

“Sure, buddy. Actually, Jimmy and I were talking about putting together a Big Hero 6 group—would you be up for playing Hiro?”

Dick’s eyes got big. “That would be _so cool!_ Jimmy’s gonna be Wasabi? Who are you going to play?”

“Baymax, of course! My friend Ash, you haven’t met them yet, is going to be Go-Go, and we have another friend, Alison, who wants to play Honey Lemon.”

“But then… well, I guess Bruce could play… Fred? Or Hidashi, but then he doesn’t get a cool costume.” Dick looked doubtfully up at his foster-father.

“I was actually thinking that he might be a good Yokai.”

“Oooohhhhh, yeah!”

Clark could see his lover trying to smother a smile. “Yeah,” Bruce said. “I think I could do that.”

“Yeah, I figured a long black cloak and a scary mask might be right up your alley,” Clark said with a wink and a grin.

Dick’s eyes got big, and he alternated quick looks at Bruce and Clark, his head snapping back and forth in an almost comical manner. “Wait, does Clark kn—uh… I mean…” he paused awkwardly, clearly trying to think of something to plausibly fill the gap.

“Yes, he does. He knows everything, Dick. Clark and I—” Bruce took a deep breath. “Clark is going to be a part of our lives for a long time.” 

Dick shuffled his feet. “Wow! Okay. I mean… that’s good. As long as he makes you happy,” he finished, standing suddenly on his dignity in the way that preteens did sometimes, trying on adult attitudes to see how they fit. Bruce nodded gravely back at him.

“Um… so… does that mean you’ve seen the Cave and everything, Clark?” Dick asked.

“Not in person, yet,” Clark responded warmly. “Bruce didn’t want to take me there until you could invite me in together.” Dick colored and smiled, drawing circles on the carpet with his right foot. Clark raised an interrogatory eyebrow at Bruce, who nodded his head, minutely. “There’s something else we should tell you, Dick,” he continued, and let himself float up off the floor.

Dick gaped up at him. “Oh my God. Are you _Superman?_ Or—”

“He’s Superman,” Bruce assured, before Dick could start naming other possibilities.

“This is the _coolest thing ever_!” Dick squealed, grabbing Clark’s hand. “You have to come see the Cave _right now._ We have a dinosaur, and I can get around the whole room without touching the floor now, and—”

Still babbling, Dick dragged Clark down the hallway toward the study. Laughing quietly, Bruce followed.

* * *

Then there was a particular midsummer’s day when Clark and Bruce boarded the Wayne private jet and flew out to a rural airstrip in Kansas. (Clark had tried to get Bruce to fly out without the plane, but to no avail). They met up with the two bored rental car agents parked at the side of the strip and zoomed out to Smallville.

Getting out of the Ferrari that Bruce had insisted on, Clark took a deep breath of grass-scented, humid air as the curling prairie and endless skylines spoke to him of home. Taking Bruce by the hand, he led him up the short walk to the merry yellow farmhouse.

“Clark!” Ma called joyfully, hurtling down the porch steps into his arms. They embraced tightly. “Thank you so much for coming to do this with me.”

“Of course, Ma.” Clark assured her. “It’s better to share it, I just didn’t think it was your thing.”

“Well,” Ma explained, wiping her eyes, “it’s not, really—it was his. But I feel like I need to do _something,_ and Lord knows I don’t have any ritual of my own. I never believed in anything, really—that’s what Episcopalianism is _for._ ”

Bruce choked off a laugh, and she turned to him with a smile.

“And here I am, first time meeting the man who won my boy’s heart in person, and I go nattering on about my own concerns and ignore you. Can you forgive me, Bruce?”

“Nothing to forgive,” Bruce said easily, taking her hand. “I’m just grateful and honored that both of you want me here for this.”

“Of course!” Ma assured, pulling him into a hug. “Now let me get you boys something to eat and drink. No sense grieving on an empty stomach.”

Some time later, Clark pushed away the pie plate with a sigh of happy repletion.

“Well,” he said. “That was delicious as usual, Ma. It’s about sundown, so we should get to it.”

“I remembered that from when you and your dad used to do it for his parents—always sundown the night before the anniversary.” Ma determinedly brushed tears from her eyes. “They never liked me—a barren shiksa for their only child. Always thought I should have converted, or made you do a formal bar mitzvah, although in what synagogue I don’t rightly know...”

“They loved how happy you made him,” Clark said, wrapping his arms around her.

The three of them set up at the rarely used dining room table, which Ma had cleared of receipts and other financial detritus. She handed out the small candles and matches, and Clark took out the white slips of paper he’d brought, with a short paragraph of italic letters printed on them.

“Technically, this isn’t exactly the right prayer,” he explained, shuffling his feet. “This is the one you’re supposed to say in synagogue, with nine other Jews, and there’s a shorter bit you can say at home with just you and the candle. But this is the one that Pa taught me to say—I think it felt more meaningful to him, because this is a prayer Jews do all the time, not just for the dead, and he didn’t feel that comfortable going out to synagogue to do it there. He told me it was about sanctification—creating sacred space. And you say it for mourning because grieving is sacred, too—because the one you’re remembering is now part of God.”

Clark lit his candle and placed it in the window, where the last rays of the day were shooting over the horizon, painting the fields golden and turning the sky orange and red and purple. Bruce and Ma mirrored his actions.

“We mourn Jonathan Kent,” he said. “May his soul enjoy eternal life, as we remember him. _Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba_ …”

* * *

Just after Christmas, Batman and Superman stood before the League.

“I know that you have all thought for some time that it would be a good idea for us to share our identities with each other,” Batman began. “I have stood against that for various reasons, both strategic and personal. However, Kal-El has convinced me—”

“At long last,” Clark interjected, grinning. Batman shot him a quelling glance, knowing only Superman could see through his lenses.

“Has convinced me that _not_ knowing each other’s identities could prove just as much of a weakness.”

Clark snorted at the pointed remark.

“I am glad to hear this,” Diana said diplomatically, ignoring the byplay. “I have long felt that knowing each other better can enable us to be greater allies.”

“I know some of you already know each other’s identities,” Batman added, glowering a bit at an oblivious Wonder Woman. He’d not been overly pleased to discover that Diana had known Clark’s identity for over a year before Bruce had learned it, no matter how many times Clark reminded him that Batman had steadfastly _refused_ to exchange their civilian names.

“Superman and I also told each other who we are several months ago,” Bruce added. “We would propose now to just go around the room and unmask. However, if anyone would prefer not to share their identity with everyone, please feel free to say so, with no repercussions. In that case, the rest of us can continue to reveal ourselves in one-on-one interactions.”

Clark sighed. Bruce had insisted on giving everyone that out, despite the fact that he had long been the only holdout against Superman and Wonder Woman’s periodic suggestions that the League exchange identities. Unsurprisingly, no one else raised any objections now.

Clark smiled and turned off the suit’s distorter. Pulling his glasses out of a cape pocket, he put them on. “My name is Clark Kent,” he said. “After being sent from Krypton as a baby, I was adopted by a couple in Kansas. I’m now a reporter with the Daily Planet in Metropolis.”

His teammates made various nods or exclamations of surprise.

They continued around the room.

“Barry Allen, forensic scientist.”

“Arthur Curry. Kind of too busy with whole ‘king’ thing to have a job, these days.”

“John Jones, detective.”

“You all know me, already,” Cyborg said shortly.

“Diana Prince, agent.”

“Wow, didn’t reach far for that one, did you, Princess? Hal Jordan, test pilot.”

Imperceptibly to everyone but Clark, Bruce drew in a shaky breath, then slowly pulled off his cowl.

“My name is Bruce Wayne.”

A long pause.

“Holy shit,” Hal bit out. “The _billionaire_?”

“Hence my ability to acquire a space station as a base.” Bruce responded simply.

“That does make a great deal of sense,” Diana approved. “I had assumed you had a backer rather than being self-supporting. This is reassuring.”

“I guess you could call it that,” Barry muttered, looking gobsmacked. The other members of the league, perhaps because they were less educated on Earth’s socioeconomics, did not comment.

“There is one other thing that Superman and I felt you should know, for emergencies.” Bruce continued. Clark took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he knew was coming. “He and I are in a committed romantic relationship.”

The pause that followed this revelation was significantly longer and more intense.

“What the _fuck_ —”

* * *

And then there was the late spring evening when Clark floated happily, cross-legged in the air next to the console in the BatCave, reading a book while Bruce worked.

“Of course!” Bruce said suddenly. “The llama was a red herring—it’s the _emu_ you have to follow!”

Clark choked off a laugh, looking up with dancing eyes. “Do I want to know?”

Bruce glanced over, eyes widening in surprise, as if he’d forgotten Clark was there. “Oh… ah, probably not. I actually—I know it’s still early for patrol, but I should go follow this up. It’s bizarre—it reminds me of some of Nygma’s work, like someone is laying out a puzzle for me to solve, but it doesn’t have his flavor.”

“No worries,” Clark reassured his lover with a brief kiss. “Go kick some ass.”

After Bruce had suited up and headed out, Clark anxiously stroked the new collar that Bruce had given him recently. Made with the same Kryptonian tech as his suit, it could take a couple different forms, but when at home he generally had it set to look like a simple steel band. Bruce had taken the initiative for every other big step in the relationship, so Clark felt strongly this one should be his—but he was still nervous about it.

Two hours later, Superman floated down through a hole in the roof of an abandoned warehouse near the Gotham docks. Standing stolidly on the ground as his partner floated up behind him, Batman didn’t turn away from his examination of the twinkling lights on the wall, which spelled out a simple question.

Clark took a deep breath and sank down to one knee, pulling out the matte black diamond band he’d chosen.

“Will you, B?”

Finally, Bruce turned to look down at him. “I’ve been running this investigation for three weeks,” he noted, no inflection in his voice.

Clark gulped nervously. “But there wasn’t any evidence an actual crime had been committed, so you made it a low priority… I had Robin keeping me informed, if something important needed more of your attention, I would have told you…”

Bruce began laughing quietly. “We clear?” he asked.

Clark quickly flipped on his x-ray and binocular visions and scanned in every direction.

“No one looking this way for miles,” he assured his partner.

Bruce pulled off his cowl. He grinned broadly, and Clark felt the tightness in his chest explosively release. Bruce took Clark’s hand, tugged him up off his knee, and into his lover’s arms.

“Thank you. This was the most fun I’ve had in weeks—outside of our bedroom, of course.”

A long kiss followed, warming Clark down to his bones.

“Oh—and, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue II - Smutty is the scene where Clark got his collar—it got too long and thematically different from this chapter, so I split it off. So if you were suddenly, "wait, where did that come from?"—not just you!


	16. Epilogue II: Smutty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce gives Clark a collar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally part of the last chapter, but it got too long and tonally different, so I broke it out. I blame the boys. To be clear, this takes place in the last ellipsis of Epilogue I, a couple months before Clark proposes to Bruce.

As winter turned into spring the year after he and Bruce had gotten together, Clark flew home from Metropolis a little after the dinner hour one night, pleasantly tired after a productive day of research and rescues. Nearing the Manor, he saw that Bruce was hard at work in the Cave as usual, typing away at the Batcomputer, and was already in the Batsuit despite the early hour. At least he had the gauntlets and cowl resting on the desk next to him. Shaking his head fondly, Clark adjusted his trajectory and came in through the cliffside opening. A mischievous grin touching his lips, he floated slowly into the Cave, moving in tiny, incremental movements, careful to stay out of Bruce’s peripheral vision.

He was just about a couple feet behind his lover, lying horizontal at shoulder height, arms reaching out, when Bruce idly tossed something over his shoulder. It landed squarely on Clark’s upper back and he crashed to the ground, belly-flopping on the cold stone floor, suddenly powerless.

“Ow,” he announced after a second, rolling over onto his back. “That was _painful_.”

The small object Bruce had thrown fell off his back as he moved, pinging as it hit the floor. Picking it up, he snorted in amusement; it was a black steel batarang, the edges dulled, studded all over with blue kryptonite chips.

“You’re an asshole,” he said, sitting up lazily. “What, do you keep that on you all the time?”

“That’s for me to know, and you to find out,” Bruce said, chuckling, spinning in his chair and leaning forward, resting his arms on his armored knees. “What did you expect, trying to sneak up on me?”

“How did you even get it?” Clark asked. “I didn’t think blue kryptonite existed naturally.”

“Not sure about that,” Bruce said. “I don’t see any reason why it couldn’t, given how many other varieties have turned up. But I had Jor-El make me a load of it the last time we were at the Fortress.”

“Betrayed by my lover _and_ my AI!” Clark mourned dramatically, flipping the batarang to the ground and nudging it away with a toe until he felt his strength return.

Bruce shook his head, laughing. “If I ever had to use something on you, for whatever the reason, much better the blue than the green. I don’t know why you didn’t give it to me in the first place.”

“The blue is of pretty limited utility in a fight, given that it only works when it’s right next to me and doesn’t do anything to keep me from moving away,” Clark pointed out. “Using it in an emergency could risk people’s lives. The green is more efficient; it knocks me down, keeps me out of a fight.”

“And could kill you,” Bruce protested.

“That’s always a risk in what we do,” Clark said, shrugging. They shared a long, emotionally laden look. They had both long ago accepted the risk of injury or early death that came with being a superhero… but that wasn’t the same as accepting that their partner courted the same risks.

“Actually,” Bruce said in a light tone, breaking the fraught moment. “That wasn’t the only thing I had the AI whip up for me.”

He stood and walked around Clark’s position on the floor to one of the Cave’s innumerable storage lockers. “I’ve been trying to come up with some kind of romantic or meaningful way to give you these, but you know how I am with that kind of thing…” Returning, he squatted easily next to Clark and quietly handed him a black velvet box.

Clark bit his bottom lip in anticipation and opened it, his hands shaking a little. His brow furrowed. Inside were six variable lengths of flat, multitone herringbone chain, seemingly without clasps, adornments, or attachments of any kind. They were beautiful, but not what he’d expected, from Bruce’s lead-up. He looked up, eyebrows quirking questioningly.

“You got these from Jor-El? Is… it a Kryptonian custom he suggested?”

Bruce smiled. “Not exactly.” He reached out and picked up one of the smallest lengths. He unlocked the wristband that Clark wore—he usually took them off before going out publicly as Superman, since they disturbed the line of the suit and could shatter if Clark flexed his muscles the wrong way, but he always put them back on as soon as he could—and wrapped the new chain loosely around Clark’s wrist. When he touched the two ends together, they merged, forming an unbroken chain. Clark shivered involuntarily as the bracelet moved on its own, shrinking to fit his wrist.

“They use Kryptonian tech, like your suit,” Bruce explained. “I had them made so they would respond to both of our mental cues—you have priority, but I added some extra programming so you can tell it to stop listening to you temporarily.” Bruce stared down at the chain; it writhed, changing color, shape, and texture until it looked just like the steel cuff still locked around his other wrist. It held that form for a moment, then transformed again, into the deep blue, pebbled surface of Clark’s suit, merging into Clark’s sleeve until he couldn’t tell visually where the suit ended and the bracelet began. The inside of the cuff, however, retained a slightly different texture, enough that he could feel the edge against his skin.

“I assume you can still break them if you need to,” Bruce said. “I know you can rip the suit. But it should stand up to a lot more abuse.”

Clark felt tears form in the corners of his eyes. He’d never told Bruce how much he hated having to take off his steel cuffs when he went out as Superman; especially given that the two of them most often had sex when Clark was wearing kryptonite, it made him feel sometimes as if only Clark belonged to Bruce, while Superman was still unloved, never quite belonging with the humans amongst whom he lived. But these restraints merged his two identities, providing a constant reminder of what he and Bruce were to each other. He could look down at any moment and know that he was wanted. Needed. Claimed.

“Bruce…” he murmured, overcome.

“May I?” Bruce’s voice was rough with emotion. Clark nodded wordlessly. Bruce pulled out of his squat and sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling Clark into his lap. Lightly, he stroked Clark’s chest, giving the suit the order to shrink away, leaving Clark naked in Bruce’s arms. As the suit shrank away, the bracelet changed back into its steel cuff form. Stroking it, Clark saw there was a black emblem marking the steel cuff where it passed over his pulse point. Twisting his wrist to get a better look, he realized it was a bat symbol. He couldn’t help but laugh. He had no doubt Bruce had managed to so stamp every one of the new adornments for his lover, at least when they were in this form.

One by one, Bruce slowly unlocked each of Clark’s previous cuffs and replaced them, until only the two longest lengths of chain was left. Bruce lifted the smaller chain, perfectly fitted for Clark’s neck, out of the box.

“I’m going to need a verbal on this one.”

Clark leaned back against his lover, gazing deep into his eyes. “Collar me, Bruce,” he said huskily. “I give myself over to you.” Bruce groaned and wrapped his hand around Clark’s throat, pulling him up and kissing him roughly.

In the midst of the kiss, Clark reached out mentally and interfaced with the new restraints. He flipped on the code that Bruce had programmed in, telling them not to listen to any other commands from him until he switched it back. Purring, Bruce carefully and lovingly wrapped the collar around Clark’s throat. Clark shuddered in reaction as the chain pulled itself tight, transforming into a wide, flat choker, comfortably snug around the bottom of his neck. Bruce smirked, stroking the collar, and Clark chuckled again, pleased to see Bruce so smugly satisfied at the sight of him, bound and marked with Batman’s emblem.

“I also worked with Jor-El to make one other thing that I’ve been wanting for a while,” Bruce said huskily. He reached under the velvet backing and pulled out something shimmery and translucent. Clark squinted at it, confused, and Bruce stretched it out, sticking his fingers inside the object. Clark’s eyes went wide.

“Is that a _condom?_ You had my dad make you a condom. Oh my god, Bruce.”

Bruce chuckled. “Technically, not your father. And he was very eager to assist.”

Clark groaned, feeling a little mortified.

“I’m not sure how much feeling I’m going to have with it,” Bruce said. “But I subjected it to extensive stress tests, and I’m confident I won’t be in any danger.” He kissed Clark again, shifting him to the floor and rolling on top. Clark kissed him back with dawning excitement. They had sex without the kryptonite occasionally—Bruce really enjoyed bottoming while Clark had his full powers—but Clark had never been able to feel safe enough to come while they were touching each other, let alone when Bruce was inside him. The fear of hurting his partner simply inhibited him too much, although Bruce had talked him through orgasm many times, watching with hot eyes.

“Got so many ideas I’ve been saving for this,” Bruce said, mouthing along the edge of the collar. “What kind of mood are you in, baby? You have anything particular you’d like to do?”

Clark shook his head, breathless. “I just want to be yours. Make me forget that I have any other purpose.”

Bruce’s pupils blew wide, the black swallowing up his blue-gray irises. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “I can do that.”

He kissed Clark gently, leisurely exploring his mouth. Clark lost himself in his partner, letting his body relax utterly. Bruce ran his hands down Clark’s arms and pulled his hands behind his back. The cuffs wriggled against his wrists as they merged. Bruce slowly disengaged from his lover and stood. Pulling the last, longest chain from the box, he touched it to the band around Clark’s neck, and it fastened itself around a slot that helpfully formed on the collar. Bruce tugged on the leash, and Clark floated upright, that being easier than getting to his feet normally with his arms locked behind his back. Bruce pulled him like a balloon to the elevator and through the Manor, to their bedroom. In the small part of his brain not consumed with lust, Clark sent up a devout prayer that neither Alfred nor Dick would happen to pass by at the wrong moment. Fortunately, his prayers were answered—or, more likely, Bruce had taken the elementary precaution of checking his security cameras before heading upstairs—and they encountered no one as they crossed the brief stretch of hall between the study and their bedroom. Bruce pushed him down on the bed and quickly fastened the leash around the headboard.

“You might want to stay there,” he suggested playfully, then began leisurely stripping off the Batsuit. Clark watched appreciatively while twisting on the bed, trying to get in a comfortable position with his hands still bound behind his back. There were several long minutes before Bruce finished, his suit components neatly stacked on the bureau, and he turned back toward Clark, now unselfconsciously naked, stroking himself erect. Clark licked his lips at the acres of bare skin and muscles, his mouth watering. Bruce slipped on the new condom and pulled Clark up to his knees with a finger crooked under the collar, kissing him hungrily.

“So,” Clark said playfully once he was released, “I take it you’re going to be using that a lot, tonight?”

“Oh yeah,” Bruce murmured, pushing him back against the bed frame and hemming him in with his broad shoulders. “It means you’re mine, and I’m going to relish it.”

Bruce worked his way down Clark’s body, kissing and stroking as he went. Clark moaned wordlessly. Reaching behind him, Bruce pulled Clark’s arms down until his wrists touched his ankles. The four cuffs snapped together with a click. Clark grunted as the hogtie pulled his body taut. Releasing the leash from the bed frame, Bruce looped it around the other ties. Crouching down to his lover’s level, Bruce nuzzled Clark’s temple for a second, and he felt the collar slither at the back of his neck. Suddenly, there was slack in the line and he sagged down with the sudden loss of tension, bending his knees and almost thumping his face against the bed. The collar, now seeming thinner and more flexible, pressed tightly against his throat; he didn’t have to breathe, but the constriction unnerved him. He thrashed a bit in panic, rising a couple inches off the bed as he pushed against gravity, but still found himself tangled in the ties. Bruce quickly supported him, guiding him to a stable position. He found himself resting with his knees fully flexed, his butt snug against his feet, and his head tilted back, pulling against the leash. Bruce had turned the restraints back into chains and all the connections into slip knots, Clark realized, so that if he pulled too hard against his bindings in one place, they would only tighten elsewhere. Clark swayed in place, still hovering a bit, his body thrumming in reaction.

“So sexy,” Bruce whispered, worshipping Clark’s body with his lips and hands. Clark groaned as his arousal spun out of control, raised rapidly by the tension and helplessness of his position and the pleasure of Bruce’s caresses on his bare skin. Bruce sank down into hero pose, sliding between Clark’s spread legs. Clark hummed as Bruce’s dick teased his entrance. Gripping Clark’s back and butt with both hands, Bruce pulled him forward and impaled him.

Clark gasped as Bruce began thrusting. Tied as he was, he could do nothing but hang there, letting Bruce play with him as he wished. Bruce continued to stroke and kiss Clark while pushing into him, but kept his caresses light and away from Clark’s trigger zones. Clark groaned.

Arousal had always felt somehow different for Clark when he had his powers, lacking the edge of pain that accompanied the mortal feeling of sexual pleasure. The closest he could get was comparing it to the moments of pure sensory bliss that a human might experience when sinking into a hot bath, savoring a bite of intense chocolate, basking in the warm sun. But he had never been _this_ aroused while at full power without the release of orgasm, and as his urgency rose, he started feeling a literal ache, a desperate _need_ for release, a physical demand such as his invulnerable body had never felt before. Clark started grinding himself down onto Bruce as much as he could without pulling the collar too tight, chasing that ache. Bruce just chuckled and sank farther down, keeping what Clark wanted just out of his reach. Clark whined deep in his throat.

“Work for it, baby,” Bruce whispered, relaxing beneath Clark. “Show me how much you want me.”

Clark groaned but obeyed, playing with gravity to move himself up and down on Bruce’s cock. He played with Bruce a little in revenge, lowering himself just enough for the movement across his rim to spark his own pleasure, without letting Bruce thrust in deep. Eventually, however, his own need spiked again and he began letting himself drop down hard, the collar around his neck tightening every time he descended. Bruce hissed in pleasure and rewarded him by stroking fingers down his erogenous zones on every downstroke.

“Trust me,” Bruce murmured. “Give yourself over to me.”

Eyes widening in understanding, Clark went limp and lowered himself into Bruce’s waiting arms, spreading his legs as wide as he could, burying his head in Bruce’s chest, letting the collar pull tight, binding every powerful Kryptonian muscle against another, with nowhere else for his power to go but against himself. Bruce growled, thrusting up hard, fingers rubbing at Clark fore and aft. Clark hung in his bonds, savoring the new sensations. He had never felt helpless or restrained like this with his powers at full force. He knew he could break the chains if he really tried, and with the tiny amount of willpower he had left, he tensed himself not to. His vision went black as pleasure rang through him, so intense it was almost painful, contractions ripping through him, remaking him. As he shook helplessly in reaction, the collar went slack. He collapsed backward, his suddenly freed limbs flailing wide, and Bruce fell on top of him, thrusting uncontrollably. Clark laid limply beneath his lover, still spasming in aftershocks, as Bruce groaned helplessly and came.

They laid together for a long time, panting quietly in rhythm, in perfect accord. Eventually, Bruce pulled out slowly, shifting his weight to Clark’s side. He discarded the condom and raised himself up on his elbow, kissing Clark long and lovingly, without aim or intent.

Pulling back, Bruce took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. “I love you,” he said softly.

“I know,” Clark responded, grinning in effervescent joy.

“Clark!”

“I was just kidding! Put down the pillow, I love you, too! Come on, Bruce, I’ve said it like a hundred times. I love you, I love you, I love you! Stop hitting me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end—or is it? I am working on a couple (much shorter) sequels, outtakes, etc. Please subscribe to the series if you'd like to stay tuned!
> 
> Thank you so much for all you readers who rode with me on this first AO3 fic. Your comments have helped me so much, both to get through this quarantine and also to learn a lot about my writing. 
> 
> Speaking of which—I would still love more comments, including constructive criticism, about this chapter or even more about the work as a whole, now that it's completed. Also, if you love the fic, give the kudos button another try, just in case you thought you'd pushed it way back when the work began but didn't!


End file.
